ilMIVFRSITV  OF  NORTH  CAROLINA 


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THE  LIBRARY  OF  THE 
UNIVERSITY  OF 
NORTH  CAROLINA 


ENDOWED  BY  THE 
DIALECTIC  AND  PHILANTHROPIC 
SOCIETIES 


PS589 
1852 


UNIVERSITY  OF  N,C.  AT  CHAPEL  HILL 


00007604345 


This  book  is  due  at  the  LOUIS  R.  WILSON  LIBRARY  on  the 
last  date  stamped  under  "Date  Due."  If  not  on  hold  it  may  be 
renewed  by  bringing  it  to  the  hbrary. 

DATE 
DUE 

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995 

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Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
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FEMALE  POETS. 


^4 


) 


THE 


FEMALE  POETS 


WITH  PORTRAITS,  BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTICES,  AND 
SPECIMENS  OF  THEIR  WRITINGS. 


BY  THOMAS  BUCHANAN  READ. 


PHILADELPHIA: 
PUBLISHED  BY  E.  H.  BUTLER  &  CO. 
1852. 


OF 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1848,  by 

E.  H.  BUTLER  &  Co., 

in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States  in  and  for  the  Eastern 
District  of  Pennsylvania. 


PUBLISHERS'  ADVERTISEMENT. 

The  present  volume  is  offered  to  the  public  as  a  specimen  of  American 
Literature  and  American  Art.  The  double  of&ce  of  the  Editor,  as  a  poet 
and  a  painter,  and  his  acknowledged  eminence  in  both  of  these  depart- 
ments, have  given  him  peculiar  facilities  for  the  preparation  of  such  a 
work.  Himself  an  accomplished  and  successful  writer,  thoroughly  versed 
in  the  literature  of  the  country,  and  personally  acquainted  with  most  of  its 
authors,  he  has  exercised  his  poetical  taste  in  selecting,  from  the  field  thus 
opened  to  him,  the  most  beautiful  specimens  which  our  literature  affords. 
The  biographical  notices  have  been  prepared,  in  every  instance,  from  facts 
either  within  his  personal  knowledge,  or  communicated  to  him  directly  by 
the  authors  or  their  friends.  The  portraits  are  all  from  paintings  made  by 
him  expressly  for  this  work,  and  are  executed  in  the  finest  style  of  line- 
engraving  by  Mr.  Pease.  The  illuminated  Proem,  both  in  the  design  and 
execution,  is  one  of  the  most  brilliant  specimens  of  the  art  ever  produced 
in  the  United  States.  The  paper,  and  even  the  type,  on  which  the  book  is 
printed,  were  made  for  this  special  purpose,  and  have  been  greatly  admired 
for  their  beauty  and  finish.  The  utmost  pains,  indeed,  have  been  taken 
both  by  the  Editor  and  the  Publishers,  to  make  the  work  as  beautiful  in 
appearance,  as  it  is  authentic  and  original  in  character. 


ADVERTISEMENT  TO  THE  THIRD  EDITION. 

The  first  edition  of  this  work  was  published  in  August,  1848,  and  was 
warmly  welcomed  by  the  public;  a  second  edition  followed  before  the 
close  of  the  year.  A  short  time  after  the  appearance  of  the  first  edition 
of  this  work.  Miss  Caroline  May's  collection  of  the  "  Female  Poets  of 
America"  was  published.  In  the  month  of  November,  or  December,  1848, 
Mr.  Rufus  W.  Grriswold's  volume  of  the  "Female  Poets  of  America" 
appeared,  and  the  following  extract  from  his  preface  is  here  introduced, 


569978 


vi       ADVERTISEMENT  TO  THE  THIRD  EDITION. 

in  order  to  make  an  explanation,  as  well  as  to  show  the  claims  which  that 
amiable  Editor  has  to  all  the  Poets  and  all  the  Poetry  of  America : — 

"When  I  completed  'The  Poets  and  Poetry  of  America,'  a  work  of  which  the 
public  approval  has  been  illustrated  in  the  sale  of  ten  large  editions,  I  determined 
upon  the  preparation  of  the  present  volume,  the  appearance  of  which  has  been 
delayed  by  my  interrupted  health.  I  must  be  permitted,  however,  to  congratulate 
with  (?)  the  public,  that  since  my  intention  was  announced  and  known,  others  have 
relieved  me  from  the  responsibility  of  singly  executing  that  which  I  had  been  hardy 
enough  singly  to  plan  and  propose.  Their  merits  may  compensate  for  my  defi- 
ciencies. The  first  volume  of  this  nature  which  appeared  in  this  country,  was 
printed  in  Philadelphia,  in  1844,  under  the  title  of  'Gems'  from  'American 
Female  Poets,  with  brief  Biographies,  by  Rufus  W.  Griswold.'  As  Mr.  T.  B.  Bead, 
in  his  'Female  Poets  of  America'  (it  is  Mr.  Read's  publisher  who  declares,  in  the 
advertisement  to  this  work,  that  '  the  biographical  notices  which  it  contains  have 
been  prepared  in  evei-y  instance  from  facts  either  within  his  personal  knowledge,  or 
communicated  to  him  directly  by  the  authors  or  their  friends'),  and  Miss  C. 
May,  in  her  'American  Female  Poets'  (in  the  preface  to  which  she  acknowledges 
a  resort  to  'printed  authorities'),  have  done  nie  the  honour  to  copy  that  slight 
performance  with  only  a  too  faithful  closeness,  I  owe  them  apologies  for  having 
led  them  into  some  errors  of  fact.  Both  of  them,  transcribing  from  the  '  Gems,' 
speak  of  Mrs.  Mowatt  as  the  daughter  of  'the  late'  Mr.  Samuel  Gouverneur 
Ogden  :  I  am  happy  to  contradict  the  record,  by  stating  that  Mr.  Ogden  still  enjoys 
in  health  and  vigour  the  honoui's  of  living  excellence.  Mr.  Read,  reproducing  my 
early  mistake,  has  given  Mrs.  Hall  the  Christian  name  of  Elizabeth,  and  the  birth- 
place of  Boston.  Nothing  but  the  extraordinary  haste  with  which  the  trifling 
volume  of  1844  was  put  together,  could  excuse  my  ignorance  that  the  name  of  the 
Authoress  of  '  Miriam'  was  Louisa  Jane,  and  that  she  was  a  native  of  Newbury- 
port.  In  one  or  the  other  of  these  volumes  are  many  more  errors,  for  which  I 
confess  myself  solely  responsible ;  but  it  would  be  tedious  to  point  them  out,  while 
it  would  be  scarcely  necessary  to  do  so,  as  they  will  undoubtedly  be  corrected 
from  the  present  work,  should  the  volumes  referred  to  attain  to  second  editions." 

The  explanation  which  we  wish  to  make  is,  that  we  had  understood  that 
Mr.  Read,  our  Editor,  had  obtained  from  the  authors  or  their  personal 
friends,  all  the  biographical  facts  contained  in  this  volume,  and  we  so 
announced  it ;  but,  upon  further  inquiry  of  Mr.  Read,  we  learn  that  in  a  few 
instances,  with  the  permission  of  the  owners  of  the  copy-right  of  "Gris- 
wold's  Gems  of  Female  Poets,"  some  information  was  sought  for  in  that 
volume,  and  used  in  the  first  and  second  editions  of  this  work.  We  have 
since  found  that  authority  not  at  all  reliable ;  the  two  instances  referred  to 
above  are  not  the  only  errors  in  Mr.  Griswold's  work,  indeed  so  numerous 
are  they,  as  to  render  such  autliority  of  no  value.  In  this,  the  third  edition, 
we  hope  that  all  errors,  whether  Mr.  Griswold's  or  our  Editor's,  have  been 
corrected.  The  second  edition  of  this  work  was  printed  and  published 
before  Mr.  Griswold's  allusion  to  the  possibility  of  such  an  issue. 


Si 


^iiaiiEitiiii 

r  BY  THE  f  OITOR 

111  iiij)l)t,  in  broken  elumbn-, 

J  lUiiit  &0U1II  the  mcirlb  nf  brrama, 
liOri'iirtt}  ii  laiib  of  mar  uiib  turiiwil 

^lucpt  bi)  Unift  aiiti  liUuninuo  atrnxm* 
lUiHii-  the  maatcra  uiaiii)tcc&  rbantiiiji 

^loil^>cr^)U8  an&  tumuUunua  tljimfa. 

hauling 

jjron  maxima  Btfrn  an^  sXaxk, 
^xuXbi  tijiu  swt^t  ciiib  buret  aiii  stumbttf 
€l)rouj)l)  tt)f  nnrtfnt  riffri  itarh; 
mi;  9£iul  was  t06«t6  an&  uiortiej, 
irikc  a  trmptst-iriui-u  burk. 

ittmu,  loitbin  tlje  iietnticc, 

■StooJi  tt)i-  uiUiiflf  tiancfl  aflame, 
5\,ni  t{)e  9UJwt)iiic,  fiUc&  uiitl;  music, 

©0  my  oriet  frtsemrnt  came; 
lUljlU  ti)c  birbs  flaitif  puuutuit  ualcntiutc 
ilfiuinst  mi)  luiuimu)  frumi-. 


hen 


J  went  houm  lo  meet  tl)«  miicn 
^iiiir  tbc  traiLing  miflta  roll  intaiis 
Oner  ruetlitifi  rtfl!i0  nf  earn, 
from  ijuict  bUlstbc  ftamlrtf 
I3*'!trto  tl)e  JiiJiant  rustic  born. 

t^raupl)  baatfb  bales  nnb  bttmane. 

itUt  3  forma  of  fairei  iiiouib. 
ynuriuji  spitsB  for  tu-ry  vt^osnrc — 

^uniis  tljftr  bci'rta  coulb  not  tDttbboia— 
;&cttiufl  lUl  X\)t  birSfl  a  aiugiuji 

With  tijcir  beiuatt  Ijarpa  of  (lolb. 

DTUf         ;iiucking  little  lito=bell9, 
iiiut  toithereb  in  the  Ijaiib; 
*ome,  where  smileb  a  summer  ocean, 

CnUhereb  pebbles  from  ti)e  sanS': 
Some,  tintl)  ;iro|if)rt  fi)eo  uplifteb, 

xynlkeJj  unconactoua  of  tfjr  lurtft. 

"'^  tljat  iTairer  Worlb  J  manbcrcb 

^loKtlii,  listfrting  oft  nnfi  long 
,2lnD  as  one  Itcl^in^  tli'f  veopers, 

^iOitl^out  ami  tliuusllt  ff  mrotvg, 
Joittrfb,  gltamng  for  lui]  ^avuer 

iflffTOcru  sf|faufs  ofsnirrfcst  aonj. 


CONTENTS. 


SARAH  HALL  : 

SKETCH  OF  A  LANDSCAPE 

LIFE  SUGGESTED  IN  A  SUMMER  EVENING 

MAHIA  BROOKS : 

TO  NIAGARA  

SONG   

MARRIAGE  

MORNING  

THE  MOON  OF  FLOWERS 
ELIZABETH  OAKES  SMITH : 

LOVE  DEAD  

THE  DROWNED  MARINER 

EROS  AND  ANTEROS  

DEATH  AND  RESURRECTION 

MIDNIGHT  

THE  SEEN  AND  THE  UNSEEN 

STANZAS   

REGRETS   

HANNAH  F.  GOULD : 

THE  PEBBLE  AND  THE  ACORN  . 

THE  silkworm's  WILL  .... 

THE  FROST  

THE  BOY  AND  THE  FLOWERS 
THE  YOUNG  SETTING  MOON 

LYDIA  H.  SiaOUHNEY: 

RETURN  OF  NAPOLEON  FROM  ST.  HELENA 

SOLITUDE  

THE  WESTERN  EMIGRANT 

NIAGARA  

THE  BELL  OF  THE  WRECK  , 

LOUISA  JANE  HALL : 

EXTRACTS  FROM  THE  DRAMA  OF  "  MIRIAm" 
LYDIA  JANE  PEIRSON : 

MY  MUSE  

TO  THE  WOOD-ROBIN  .... 
THE  WILDWOOD  HOME  .... 


xii 


CONTENTS 


FRANCES  SARGENT  OSGOOD  :  page 

THE  daisy's  mistake   71 

YOUR  HEART  IS  A  MUSIC-BOX,  DEAREST   74 

THE  SPIRIT  OF  POETRY   75 

GARDEN  eOSSIP  '77 

CALL  ME  PET  NAMES   79 

A  SERMON   80 

TO  A  DEAR  LITTLE  TRUANT   82 

BURYDICE   83 

EMMA  0.  EMBURY : 

THE  RUINED  MILL  87 

A  PORTRAIT  89 

ILLUSIONS  91 

THE  ^OLIAN  HARP  ^  92 

SONG  93 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  THE  DUKE  OF  REICHSTADT  94 

SONNET  .......   96 

THE  widow's  WOOER  97 

CAROLINE  GILMAN: 

THE  RELEASED  CONVICT'S  CELL  99 

MARY  ANNA  GIBBES,  THE  YOUNG  HEROINE  OF  STONO,  S.  C,  1779  .  .  101 
THE  AMERICAN  BOY   106 

S.  ANNA  LEWIS : 

EXTRACTS  FROM  "THE  CHILD  OF  THE  SEA"  109 

ELIZABETH  BOGART : 

she  knew  she  was  deserted  113 

to  my  cousin  116 

I'm  weary  with  thinking!  118 

LXJELLA  J.  B.  CASE  : 

THE  INDIAN  RELIC  120 

DEATH  LEADING  AGE  TO  REPOSE  123 

ELIZABETH  S.  SWIFT: 

TO    125 

SONNETS  TO  ESTELLE  127 

LINES  TO  A  BUNCH  OF  WITHERED  FLOWERS  128 

FIRST  OF  MAY  129 

ELIZABETH  F.  ELLET : 

LINES  TO     131 

SONNET   133 

SONG   133 

STANZAS   135 

THE  OLD  LOVE   136 

SODUS  BAY   139 

VANITY  OF  THE  VULGAR  GREAT   141 

SARAH  0.  MAYO  : 

UDOLLO   143 

CROSSING  THE  MOOR   150 

MARY  E.  LEE : 

THE  POETS  153 


CONTENTS.  'xiii 
MARY  E.  HEWITT  :  ''a<'» 

THE  AXE  OF  THE  SETTLER   155 

GOD  BLESS  THE  MARINER   157 

THE  CITY  OF  THE  SEA   158 

OSCEOLA  SIGNING  THE  TREATY   160 

THE  SUNFLOWER  TO  THE  SUN   161 

LUCY  HOOFER : 

THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HERODIAS   163 

LAST  HOURS  OF  A  YOUNG  POETESS  ^         .         .         .  165 

OSCEOLA   169 

TO  A  BOY  FLYING  HIS  KITE   172 

MRS.  EMILY  JUDSON,  (Fanny  Forrester)  : 

NOT  A  POET    173 

CLINGING  TO  EARTH  '   175 

ASPIRING  TO  HEAVEN   176 

MY  BIRD   177 

LOUISA  SIMES: 

TO  ONE  AFAR   179 

SARAH  J.  HALE  : 

IRON   181 

I  SING  TO  HIM        .         •   185 

THE  MISSISSIPPI   187 

THE  FOUR-LEAVED  CLOVER    192 

MARY  A.  H.  DODD : 

TWILIGHT   195 

THE  dove's  visit         .   197 

JULIA  H.  SCOTT : 

I  AM  WEARY   201 

MOUNTAIN  MELODIES   203 

THE  FIRST  SNOW   204 

MY  WILDWOOD  BOWER   205 

LOUISA  S.  M'CORD : 

THE  WORLD  OF  DREAMS   207 

THE  VOICE  OF  YEARS   213 

FORGET  THEE  !   216 

JULIET  H.  L.  CAMPBELL  : 

A  STORY  OF  SUNRISE  "   217 

A  SONG  OF  SUNSET   219 

MARY  S.  B.  DANA : 

PASSING  UNDER  THE  ROD   221 

THE  BIRD  OF  THE  SOUTH            .         .         ,   224 

AMELIA  B.  WELBY : 

PULPIT  ELOQUENCE   225 

THE  RAINBOW    229 

MELODIA   231 

MRS.  R.  S.  NICHOLS : 

THE  SHADOW   237 

SONG  OF  THE  MADMAN  ;         .  240 

LITTLE  NELL   243 

FAREWELL  OF  THE  SOUL  TO  THE  BODY   244 

THE  MISSES  WARE : 

I  WALK  IN  DREAMS  OF  POETRY   247 

2 


xiv 


CONTENTS. 


CAROLINE  M.  SAWYER  :  pag 

THE  EOT  AND  HIS  ANGEL   25 

SPURN  NOT  THE  GUILTY   25 

THE  BLIND  GIRL   25 

CATHARINE  H.  ESLING: 

TO  THE  WIND   25 

THE  CAPTIVE   26 

PARTING  WORDS   26 

ANNE  C.  LTNCH : 

THE  IDEAL  .         .         .   26 

SONNET   .  26 

PAUL  PREACHING  AT  ATHENS   26 

THE  WASTED  FOUNTAINS   27 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  AN  INFANT   27 

SONNET — ASPIRATION   274 

LAURA  M.  THURSTON : 

ON  CROSSING  THE  ALLEGHANIES   275 

SARAH  HELENA  WHITMAN  : 

THE  PAST   277 

DAVID   .         .         .         ,  280 

A  STILL  DAY  IN  AUTUMN   282 

A  SEPTEMBER  EVENING  ON  THE  BANKS  OF  THE  MOSHASSUCK  .         .  284 

ELIZABETH  MARGARET  CHANDLER : 

THE  BATTLE-FIELD  .         .         .         .  ■   28" 

EDITH  MAY : 

COUNT  JULIO   289 

A  poet's  LOVE   298 

SUMMER   300 

ELIZA  TOWNSEND : 

incomprehensibility  of  GOD   303 

ELIZABETH  0.  KINNEY : 

SONNET   305 

to  the  eagle   ...  306 

the  spirit  of  song     ....         .      .  ....  309 

sonnet  a  winter  night   311 

sonnet  to  a  violet  found  in  decembek    312 

ALICE  CAREY: 

HARVEST  TIME   313 

PALESTINE   315 

PHCEBE  CAREY : 

THE  FOLLOWERS  OF  CHRIST   317 

SARAH  L.  P.  SMITH : 

WHITE  ROSES   322 

THE  FALL  OF  WARSAW   323 

MARY  E.  BROOKS: 

WEEP  NOT  FOR  THE  DEAD   326 

MARGARET  JUNKIN : 

SHADE  AND  SUNSHINE   328 

THE  BIRTH  OF  THE  FLOWERS   331 


CONTENTS.  XV 

ANNA  PEYRE  DINNIES  :  page 

COME,  ROUSE  THEE,  DEAREST   333 

THE  GIFTED  GIRL   335 

THE  WIFE   338 

FRIENDSHIP   339 

ELIZABETH  J.  EAMES : 

"THERE  SHALL  BE  LIGHT"   341 

DIEM  PERDIDI   343 

love's  LAST  WORK   344 

FLOWERS  IN  A  SICK  ROOM                                                                              .         .  347 

SARA  J.  CLARKE,  (Grace  Greenwood)  : 

ARIADNE   349 

THE  HORSEBACK  RIDE   354 

A  SONG   356 

MRS.  J.  0.  NEAL  : 

THE  bride's  CONFESSION   357 

TOO  LATE  !      .         .         •   359 

HANNAH  JANE  WOODMAN  : 

WHEN  WILT  THOU  LOVE  ME  ?   361 

HARRIET  WINSLOW  LIST : 

TO  THE  UNSATISFIED   363 

MORNING  AND  NIGHT   365 

ELIZA  L.  FOLLEN : 

WINTER  SCENES  IN  THE  COUNTRY   368 

"  BY  FAITH  YE  ARE  SAVED"   371 

TO  SPRING   372 

MARIA  LOWELL: 

SONNET — IN  ABSENCE   374 

THE  WREATH   375 

MRS.  GRAY  : 

MEMORIES  OF  THE  HEART  TO  FANNY   377 

FUNERAL  DIRGE  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  CHRISTIAN  STATESMAN    .         .         .  380 

JULIA  HOWE  : 

WHAT  I  SAID  TO  THE  DYING  ROSE,  AND  WHAT  IT  SAID  TO  ME        .         .         .  382 

MORTAL  AND  IMMORTAL   386 

ANNE  M.  F.  ANNAN  : 

BURIAL  IN  THE  COUNTRY   388 

AN  infant's  SPIRIT   392 

MARION  WARD  : 

I  LOVE  THEE   394 

SUSAN  PINDAR : 

THE  SPIRIT  MOTHER   395 

THE  SHADED  FLOWER   397 

ELIZA  L.  SPROAT  : 

THE  prisoner's  CHILD   399 

TO  MY  BROTHER   402 

A.  D.  WOODBRIDGE  : 

life's  harvest-field   406 

life's  light  and  shade   407 

MRS.  MARGARET  M.  DAVIDSON  : 

THE  LAMENT   409 


xvi 


CONTENTS. 


LUOKETIA  MARIA  DAVTDSON:  pagi 

A  SONS  411 

ON  THE  BIRTH  OF  HER  SISTER  MARGARET         .         .         .         .  .  413 

MARGARET  MILLER  DAVIDSON  : 

TO  MY  SOLDIER  BROTHER  IN  THE  FAR  WEST  *413 

ANNA  MARIA  WELLS  : 

THE  FUTURE  415 

HELEN  IRVING : 

LOVE  AND  FAME  417 

MARY  L.  LAWSON : 

THE  NAME  DEEP  CARVED  ON  THIS  OLD  TREE  419 

MRS.  M.  ST.  LEON  LOUD  : 

THE  HINDOO  MOTHER  423 

THE   AGED  423 

CORNELIA  DA  PONTE : 

THE  midshipman's  FAREWELL  435 

ANNA  CORA  MOWATT : 

LOVE   427 

TIME  428 

MY  LIFE  429 

CHARLOTTE  CUSHMAN : 

THERE   IS  NO  GOD  '  431 

THERE  IS  A  GOD  432 

CHARLOTTE  M.  S,  BARNES,  (Mrs.  E.  S.  Conner)  : 

ADDRESS  OF   "PEN  AND  INk"        .         ■  433 

CATHARINE  E.  BEECHER  : 

NEW  year's  EVE  434 

MARTHA  DAY : 

THE  comet's  FLIGHT  43/ 

ELLEN  S.  SMITH  : 

"  OH  YE  showers  AND  DEW,  ETC."  441 

THE  SYMPATHY  OF  HEAVEN  445 

MARION  H.  RAND  : 

HOME  446 

CLARA  MOORE : 

THE   WIDOW  TO  HER  GOLD  RING  448 

MARY  G.  WELLS  : 

IMPLORA  PACE  450 

ELIZABETH  LLOYD  : 

MILTON  ON  HIS  BLINDNESS  452 

BLANCHE  BENNAIRDE  : 

LOVE  455 

THE  TEARS  AND  SIGHS  OF  LOVE   456 

MARY  J.  REED : 

LOVE  ALL  THINGS   458 

LITTLE  CHILDREN   46] 


THE 


FEMALE  POETS 

OF  AMERICA. 


SARAH  HALL. 

The  subject  of  this  notice  was  born  in  Philadelphia,  in  1761.  She  was 
the  daughter  of  the  Rev.  John  Ewing,  D.  D.  She  was  married  in  the  year 
1782  to  Mr.  John  Hall.  After  a  life  of  prosperity  and  adversity,  she  died 
in  1830,  lamented  by  many,  and  honoured  for  her  Christian  virtues  and 
exalted  intellect. 

SKETCH  OF  A  LANDSCAPE. 

SUGGESTED  BY  HEARING  THE  BIRDS  SING  DURING  THE  REMARKABLY 
WARM  WEATHER  IN  FEBRUARY,  1806. 

What  joyous  notes  are  those,  so  soft,  so  sweet, 
That,  unexpected,  strike  my  charmed  ear  ? 
They  are  the  Robin's  song !    This  genial  morn 
Deceives  the  feathered  tribe  :  for  yet  the  sun 
In  Pisces  holds  his  course ;  nor  yet  has  Spring 
Advanced  one  legal  claim ;  but  though  oblique. 
So  mild,  so  warm,  descend  his  cheering  rays, 
Imprisoning  Winter  seems  subdued.    No  dread 
Of  change  retards  their  wing  ;  but  off  they  soar, 
Triumphing  in  the  fancied  dawn  of  Spring. 


12 


SARAH  HALL. 


Adventurous  birds,  and  rash !  ye  little  think, 
Though  lilacs  bud,  and  early  willows  burst. 
How  soon  the  blasts  of  March — the  snowy  sleets, 
May  turn  your  hasty  flight,  to  seek  again 
Your  wonted  warm  abodes.    Thus  prone  is  youth, 
Thus  easily  allured,  to  put  his  trust 
In  fair  appearance ;  and  with  hope  elate, 
And  nought  suspecting,  thus  he  sallies  forth. 
To  earn  experience  in  the  storms  of  life  ! 

But  why  thus  chide — why  not  with  gratitude 
Receive  and  cherish  every  gleam  of  joy  ? 
For  many  an  hour  can  witness,  that  not  oft 
My  solitude  is  cheered  by  feeling  such, 
So  blithe — so  pleasurable  as  thy  song. 
Sweet  Robin!  gives.    Yet  on  thy  graceful  banks, 
Majestic  Susquehanna — joy  might  dwell ! 
For  whether  bounteous  Summer  sport  her  stores. 
Or  niggard  Winter  bind  them — still  the  forms 
Most  grand,  most  elegant,  that  Nature  wears 
Beneath  Columbia's  skies,  are  here  combined. 

The  wide  extended  landscape  glows  with  more 
Than  common  beauty.    Hills  rise  on  hills  — 
An  amphitheatre,  whose  lofty  top 
The  spreading  oak,  or  stately  poplar,  crowns  — 
Whose  ever- varying  sides  present  such  scenes — 
Smooth  or  precipitous — harmonious  still  — 
Mild  or  sublime, —  as  wake  the  poet's  lay; 
Nor  aught  is  wanting  to  delight  the  sense ; 
The  gifts  of  Ceres,  or  Diana's  shades. 
The  eye  enraptured  roves  o'er  woods  and  dells, 


SARAH  HALL. 


13 


Or  dwells  complacent  on  the  numerous  signs 

Of  cultivated  life.    The  labourer's  decent  cot 

Marks  the  clear  spring,  or  bubbling  rill. 

The  lowlier  hut  hard  by  the  river's  edge, 

The  boat,  the  seine  suspended,  tell  the  place 

Where  in  his  season  hardy  fishers  toil. 

More  elevated  on  the  grassy  slope, 

The  farmer's  mansion  rises  mid  his  trees ; 

Thence,  o'er  his  fields  the  master's  watchful  eye 

Surveys  the  whole.    He  sees  his  flocks,  his  herds 

Excluded  from  the  grain-built  cone ;  all  else. 

While  rigid  Winter  reigns,  their  free  domain ! 

Range  through  the  pastures,  crop  the  tender  root. 

Or,  climbing  heights  abrupt,  search  careful  out 

The  welcome  herb, — now  prematurely  sprung 

Through  half-thawed  earth.   Beside  him  spreading  elms, 

His  friendly  barrier  from  the  invading  north, 

Contrast  their  shields  defensive  with  the  willow 

Whose  flexile  drapery  sweeps  his  rustic  lawn. 

Before  him  lie  his  vegetable  stores. 

His  garden,  orchards,  meadows — all  his  hopes  — 

Now  bound  in  icy  chains :  but  ripening  suns 

Shall  bring  their  treasures  to  his  plenteous  board. 

Soon,  too,  the  hum  of  busy  man  shall  wake 

The  adjacent  shores.    The  baited  hook,  the  net. 

Drawn  skilful  round  the  watery  cove,  shall  bring 

Their  prize  delicious  to  the  rural  feast. 

Here  blooms  the  laurel  on  the  rugged  breaks, 
Umbrageous,  verdant,  through  the  circling  year 
His  bushy  mantle  scorning  winds  or  snows — 


SARAH  HALL. 


While  there  —  two  ample  streams  confluent  grace  — 

Complete  the  picture — animate  the  whole  ! 

Broad  o'er  the  plain  the  Susquehanna  rolls, 

His  rapid  waves  far  sounding  as  he  comes. 

Through  many  a  distant  clime  and  verdant  vale, 

A  thousand  springy  caverns  yield  their  rills. 

Augmenting  still  his  force.    The  torrent  grows. 

Spreads  deep  and  wide,  till,  braving  all  restraint 

Even  mountain  ridges  feel  the  imperious  press ; 

Forced  from  their  ancient  rock-bound  base  —  they  leave 

Their  monumental  sides,  erect,  to  guard 

The  pass  —  and  tell  to  future  days  and  years 

The  wondrous  tale  !  Meanwhile, 

The  conqueror  flood  holds  on  his  course. 

Resistless  ever  —  sinuous,  or  direct. 

Unconscious  tribes  beneath  his  surface  play. 

Nor  heed  the  laden  barques  his  surface  bear ; 

Now  gliding  swiftly  by  the  threatening  rocks. 

Now  swimming  smoothly  to  the  distant  bay. 

To  meet  and  bring  his  liberal  tribute  too. 

The  modest  Octorara  winds  his  way  — 

Not  ostentatious,  like  a  boasting  world. 

Their  little  charities  proclaiming  loud — 

But  silent  through  the  glade  retired  and  wild. 

Between  the  shaded  banks  on  either  hand. 

Till  circling  yonder  mead — he  yields  his  name. 

Nor  proudly,  Susquehanna  !  boast  thy  gain, 

For  thence  not  far,  thou  too,  like  him  shalt  give 

Thy  congregated  waters,  title — all. 

To  swell  the  nobler  name  of  Chesapeake  ! 


SARAH  HALL. 


15 


And  is  not  such  a  scene  as  this  the  spell 
That  lulls  the  restless  passions  into  peace  ? 
Yes.    Cold  must  be  the  sordid  heart,  unmoved 
By  Nature's  bounties :  but  they  cannot  fill 
That  ardent  craving  in  the  mind  of  man 
For  social  intercourse, —  the  healthful  play — 
The  moral  gem — the  light  of  intellect  — 
Communion  sweet  with  those  we  love ! 


LIFE. 

'        SUGGESTED  IN  A  SUMMER  EVENING. 

'Tis  early  eve — the  sun's  last  trembling  glance, 
Still  hovers  o'er  and  gilds  the  western  wild. 
And  slowly  leaves  the  haunts  of  solitude. 

Venus,  bright  mistress  of  the  musing  hour, 
Above  the  horizon  lifts  her  beck'ning  torch ; 
Stars,  in  their  order,  follow  one  by  one 
The  graceful  movement  of  their  brilliant  queen, 
Obedient  to  the  hand  that  fixed  them  all. 
And  said  to  each — ^Be  this  thy  place. 
Refreshing  airs  revive  man's  sinking  strength. 
And  hallowed  thoughts  come  rushing  to  the  heart ! 

Now  from  her  eastern  clime  the  golden  Moon, 
Set  in  a  frame  of  azure,  lifts  her  shield, 
And  all  creation  wakes  to  life  renewed ! 
Not  long  she  holds  supreme  her  joyous  course ; 
Her  foes  in  sullen  vapours  fitful  rise, 

3 


16 


SARAH  HALL. 


And  envious,  hovering  over  her  splendid  path, 
Now  thin — now  dense,  impede  her  kindly  ray. 
In  hasty,  partial  gleams,  of  light  and  shade, 
She  holds  her  purposed  way. — Now  darker  clouds 
Collect,  combine,  advance — she  falls — 'twould  seem 
To  rise  no  more  —  sudden  they  break — they  pass, 
Once  more  she  shines — bright  sovereign  of  the  skies  ! 

Thus  'tis  with  life  —  it  is  not  dubious  hope 
In  early  youth — 'tis  joy — joy  unalloyed; 
Joy  blooms  within,  all  objects  take  the  tint, 
And  glowing  colours  paint  the  vista's  length. 

Not  long,  life  dances  on  the  plastic  scene, 
Care's  haggard  form  invades  each  flowery  path ; 
Disease,  with  pallid  hue,  leads  on  her  train, 
And  Sorrow  sheds  her  tears  in  wasting  showers ! 
But  Pain  and  Grief  pass  on,  and  harrowing  Care 
Awhile  puts  on  some  pleasing,  treacherous  shape ; 
Then  hope  revives,  health  blooms!  love  smiles — 
And  wealth  and  honours  crown  the  distant  day. 
How  long  ?    Envenomed  ills  collect  all  'round, 
And  while  short-sighted  man  his  fragile  schemes 
Pursues  —  not  grasps — blow  after  blow  fall  swift. 
Fall  reckless — and  he  sinks  beneath  their  weight! 
To  rise  no  more  ?    Like  yon  triumphant  Moon, 
That  "  walks  in  brightness"  now,  beyond  the  clouds. 
Through  patient  suffering  man  shall  surely  rise 
To  dwell  above  that  orb,  in  light  ineffable. 
Where  pain — ^where  sin — where  sorrows  never  come  ! 


MARIA  BROOKS. 


"  Maria  del  OccidenU^''  author  of  "  Zophiel,  or  the  Bride  of  Seven," 
was  a  native  of  Medford,  Massachusetts.  Her  maiden  name  was  Gowen. 
At  an  early  age  she  was  married  to  Mr.  Brooks,  a  wealthy  merchant  of 
Boston.  After  a  few  years  her  husband  met  with  severe  reverses  in 
business,  and  in  1821  left  her  a  widow.  Soon  after,  she  became  possessed 
of  property  in  the  island  of  Cuba,  to  which  place  she  removed.  She  died 
in  1845,  at  about  fifty  years  of  age.  Zophiel,  one  of  the  most  remarkable 
poems  of  the  day,  was  first  published  in  London  in  1833,  under  the  auspices 
of  Dr.  Southey,  who  styles  the  fair  author  "  the  most  impassioned  and  most 
imaginative  of  all  poetesses." 

TO  NIAGARA. 

Spirit  of  Homer !  thou  whose  song  has  rung 
From  thine  own  Greece  to  this  supreme  abode 
Of  Nature — this  great  fane  of  Nature's  God — 

Breathe  on  my  strain ! — oh,  touch  the  fervid  tongue 
Of  a  fond  votaress  kneeling  on  the  sod ! 

Sublime  and  beautiful  your  chapels  here  !  — 

Here  'neath  the  azure  dome  of  heaven  ye  're  wed — 
Here,  on  this  rock  which  trembles  as  I  tread ! 

Your  blended  sorcery  claims  both  pulse  and  tear, 

Controls  life's  source,  and  reigns  o'er  heart  and  head. 


18 


MARIA  BROOKS. 


Terrific,  but  oh !  beautiful  abyss ! 

If  I  should  trust  my  fascinated  eye, 

Or  hearken  to  your  maddening  melody, 
Sense — form — would  spring  to  meet  your  white  foam's  kiss. 

Be  lapped  in  your  soft  rainbows  once,  and  die. 

Colour,  depth,  height,  extension — all  unite 

To  chain  the  spirit,  by  a  look  intense. 

The  dolphin,  in  his  clearest  seas,  or  thence 
Ta'en,  for  some  queen,  to  deck  of  ivory  white. 

Dies  not,  in  changeful  tints,  more  delicately  bright. 

Look !  look !  there  comes,  o'er  yon  pale  green  expanse, 
Beyond  the  curtain  of  this  altar  vast, 
A  glad  young  swan.    The  smiling  beams  that  cast 

Light  from  her  plumes,  have  lured  her  soft  advance — 
She  nears  the  fatal  brink — her  graceful  life  is  past ! 

Look  up !  nor  her  fond,  foolish  fate  disdain ; 
An  eagle  rests  upon  the  wind's  sweet  breath — 
Feels  he  the  charm  ?  woos  he  the  scene  beneath  ? 

He  eyes  the  sun — moves  his  dark  wing  again  — 

Remembers  clouds  and  storms — yet  flies  the  lovely  death. 

Niagara !  wonder  of  this  western  world, 
And  half  the  world  beside  !  hail,  beauteous  queen 
Of  cataracts !"  an  angel,  who  had  been 
O'er  earth  and  heaven,  spoke  thus — his  bright  wings  furled, 
And  knelt  to  Nature  first  on  this  wild  cliff  unseen. 


MARIA  BROOKS. 


SONG. 

Day,  in  melting  purple  dying, 
Blossoms,  all  around  me  sighing. 
Fragrance,  from  the  lilies  straying, 
Zephyr,  with  my  ringlets  playing. 

Ye  but  waken  my  distress ; 

I  am  sick  of  loneliness. 

Thou,  to  whom  I  love  to  hearken. 
Come,  ere  night  around  me  darken ; 
Though  thy  softness  but  deceive  me, 
Say  thou  'rt  true,  and  I  '11  believe  thee ; 
Veil,  if  ill,  thy  soul's  intent, 
Let  me  think  it  innocent ! 

Save  thy  toiling,  spare  thy  treasure  : 
All  I  ask  is  friendship's  pleasure ; 
Let  the  shining  ore  lie  darkling. 
Bring  no  gem  in  lustre  sparkling  ! 

Gifts  and  gold  are  nought  to  me 
I  would  only  look  on  thee ! 

Tell  to  thee  the  high-wrought  feeling. 

Ecstasy  but  in  revealing ; 

Paint  to  thee  the  deep  sensation. 

Rapture  in  participation. 

Yet  but  torture,  if  compressed 
In  a  lone,  unfriended  breast. 


•20 


MARIA  BROOKS. 


Absent  still !  Ah !  come  and  bless  me ! 

Let  these  eyes  again  caress  thee ; 

Once,  in  caution,  I  could  fly  thee : 

Now,  I  nothing  could  deny  thee ; 
In  a  look  if  death  there  be. 
Come,  and  I  will  gaze  on  thee ! 


MARRIAGE. 

The  bard  has  sung,  God  never  formed  a  soul 

Without  its  own  peculiar  mate,  to  meet 
Its  wandering  half,  when  ripe  to  crown  the  whole 

Bright  plan  of  bliss,  most  heavenly,  most  complete ! 

But  thousand  evil  things  there  are  that  hate 
To  look  on  happiness ;  these  hurt,  impede, 

And,  leagued  with  time,  space,  circumstance,  and  fate, 
Keep  kindred  heart  from  heart,  to  pine,  and  pant,  and  bleed. 

And  as  the  dove  to  far  Palmyra  flying. 

From  where  her  native  founts  of  Antioch  beam, 

Weary,  exhausted,  longing,  panting,  sighing, 
Lights  sadly  at  the  desert's  bitter  stream ; 

So  many  a  soul,  o'er  life's  drear  desert  faring. 
Love's  pure,  congenial  spring  unfound,  unquafFed, 

Suffers,  recoils,  then,  thirsty  and  despairing 

Of  what  it  would,  descends  and  sips  the  nearest  draught. 


MARIA  BROOKS. 


MORNING. 

How  beauteous  art  thou,  0  morning  sun ! 

The  old  man,  feebly  tottering  forth,  admires 
As  much  thy  beauty,  now  life's  dream  is  done, 

As  when  he  moved  exulting  in  his  fires. 

The  infant  strains  his  little  arms  to  catch 
The  rays  that  glance  about  his  silken  hair ; 

And  Luxury  hangs  her  amber  lamps,  to  match 

Thy  face,  when  turned  away  from  bower  and  palace  fair. 

Sweet  to  the  lip  the  draught,  the  blushing  fruit ; 

Music  and  perfumes  mingle  with  the  soul ; 
How  thrills  the  kiss,  when  feeling's  voice  is  mute ! 

And  light  and  beauty's  tints  enhance  the  whole. 

Yet  each  keen  sense  were  dulness  but  for  thee : 
Thy  ray  to  joy,  love,  virtue,  genius  warms ; 

Thou  never  weariest ;  no  inconstancy 

But  comes  to  pay  new  homage  to  thy  charms. 

How  many  lips  have  sung  thy  praise,  how  long ! 

Yet,  when  his  slumbering  harp  he  feels  thee  woo, 
The  pleasured  bard  pours  forth  another  song, 

And  finds  in  thee,  like  love,  a  theme  for  ever  new. 

Thy  dark-eyed  daughters  come  in  beauty  forth, 

In  thy  near  realms ;  and,  like  their  snow-wreaths  fair, 

The  bright-haired  youths  and  maidens  of  the  North 
Smile  in  thy  colours  when  thou  art  not  there. 


22 


MARIA  BROOKS. 


'Tis  there  thou  bidst  a  deeper  ardour  glow, 

And  higher,  purer  reveries  completest ; 
As  drops  that  farthest  from  the  ocean  flow. 

Refining  all  the  way,  form  springs  the  sweetest. 

Haply,  sometimes,  spent  with  the  sleepless  night. 

Some  wretch,  impassioned,  from  sweet  morning's  breath 

Turns  his  hot  brow,  and  sickens  at  thy  light ; 

But  Nature,  ever  kind,  soon  heals  or  gives  him  death. 


THE  MOON  OF  FLOWERS. 

0,  MooN  of  flowers !  sweet  moon  of  flowers ! 
Why  dost  thou  mind  me  of  the  hours 
Which  flew  so  softly  on  that  night, 
When  last  I  saw  and  felt  thy  light  ? 

0,  moon  of  flowers !  thou  moon  of  flowers ! 
Would  thou  couldst  give  me  back  those  hours, 
Since  which  a  dull,  cold  year  has  fled, 
Or  show  me  those  with  whom  they  sped ! 

0,  moon  of  flowers !  0,  moon  of  flowers ! 
In  scenes  afar  were  past  those  hours, 
Which  still  with  fond  regret  T  see. 
And  wish  my  heart  could  change  like  thee ! 


ELIZABETH  OAKES  SMITH. 


Mrs.  Smith,  whose  maiden  name  was  Prince,  is  a  native  of  Portland, 
Maine.  At  an  early  age  she  was  married  to  Seba  Smith,  Esq.,  a  gentleman 
who  has  added  to  our  literature  some  beautiful  poetry,  but  who,  while  editor 
of  the  Portland  Courier,  became  more  widely  known  as  the  author  of  the 
"  original  Jack  Downing"  letters.  Mrs.  Smith  is  one  of  our  most  brilliant 
writers ;  her  productions  are  characterized  rather  by  a  passionate  and  lofty 
imagination  than  by  fancy,  and  a  subtle  vein  of  philosophy  more  than  senti- 
ment, though  in  the  latter  she  is  by  no  means  deficient.  Her  longest  poem, 
"The  Sinless  Child,"  was  published  in  1841,  in  the  Southern  Literary  Mes- 
senger, and  at  once  gained  her  an  enviable  position,  which  she  has  since 
mamtained  and  fortified  with  a  series  of  the  finest  sonnets  which  the  litera- 
ture of  our  country  affords.  Besides  these,  we  see  announced,  as  a  late  pro- 
duct of  her  pen,  a  play,  entitled  "  The  Roman  Tribute,"  the  published  extracts 
of  which  give  evidence  of  that  most  rare  quality,  a  fine  dramatic  genius. 

LOVE  DEAD. 

This  morn  with  trembling  I  awoke, 

Just  as  the  dawn  my  slumber  broke, 
Flapping  came  a  heavy  wing,  sounding  pinions  o'er  my  head, 
Beating  down  the  blessed  air  with  a  weight  of  chilling  dread — 

Felt  I  then  the  presence  of  a  doom 

That  an  Evil  occupied  the  room — 

And  I  dared  not  round  the  bower. 

Chilly  in  the  grayish  morning. 

Dared  not  face  the  evil  power. 

With  its  voice  of  inward  warning. 

4 


24 


ELIZABETH  OAKES  SMITH. 


Vain  with  weakness  we  may  palter — 
Vainly  may  the  fond  heart  falter — 
Came  there  then  upon  my  soul,  dropping  down  like  leaden 
weight, 

Burning  pang,  or  freezing  pang — which,  I  know  not,  'twas 
so  great ; — 
Life  hath  its  moments,  black,  unnumbered ; 
I  knew  not  if  mine  eyes  had  slumbered, 
Yet  I  little  thought  such  pain 
Ever  to  have  known  again — 
Love  dies,  too,  when  Faith  is  dead ; 
Yesternight  Faith  perished. 

I  knew  that  Love  could  never  change — 

That  Love  should  die  seems  yet  more  strange — 
Lifting  up  the  downy  veil,  screening  Love  within  my  heart: 
Beating  there  as  beat  my  pulse,  moving  like  myself  a  part — 

I  had  kept  him  cherished  there  so  deep, 

Heart-rocked  kept  him  in  his  balmy  sleep. 

That  till  now  I  never  knew 

How  his  fibres  round  me  grew — 

Could  not  know  how  deep  the  sorrow 

Where  Hope  bringeth  no  to-morrow. 

I  struggled,  knowing  we  must  part, 
1  grieved  to  lift  him  from  my  heart, 
Grieving  much  and  struggling  much,  forth  I  brought  him, 
sorrowing — 

Drooping  hung  his  fainting  head — all  adown  his  dainty 
wing. 


ELIZABETH  OAKES  SMITH. 

Shrieked  I  with  a  wild  and  dark  surprise — 
For  I  saw  the  marble  in  Love's  eyes — 
Yet  I  hoped  his  soul  would  wait, 
As  he  oft  had  waited  there — 
Hovering,  though  at  Heaven's  gate — 
Could  he  leave  me  to  despair  ? 

Unfolded  then  the  crystal  door, 
Where  Love  shall  languish  never  more — 
Weeping  Love,  thy  days  are  o'er.    Lo !  I  lay  thee  on 
bier. 

Wiping  thus  from  thy  dead  cheek  every  vestige  of  a  tear 
Love  has  perished — hist,  hist,  how  they  tell, 
Beating  pulse  of  mine,  his  funeral  knell — 
Love  is  dead,  aye  dead  and  gone, 
Why  should  I  be  living  on ;  — 
Why  be  in  this  chamber  sitting, 
With  but  phantoms  round  me  flitting  ? 


THE  DROWNED  MARINER. 

A  Mariner  sat  in  the  shrouds  one  night. 

The  wind  was  piping  free ; 
Now  bright,  now  dimmed  was  the  moonlight  pale, 
And  the  phosphor  gleamed  in  the  wake  of  the  whale. 

As  it  floundered  in  the  sea : 


26 


ELIZABETH   OAKES  SMITH. 


The  scud  was  flying  athwart  the  sky, 
The  gathering  winds  went  whistling  by, 
And  the  wave,  as  it  towered,  then  fell  in  spray, 
Looked  an  emerald  wall  in  the  moonlight  ray. 

The  mariner  swayed  and  rocked  on  the  mast, 

But  the  tumult  pleased  him  well : 
Down  the  yawning  wave  his  eye  he  cast, 
And  the  monsters  watched  as  they  hurried  past, 

Or  lightly  rose  and  fell, — 
For  their  broad,  damp  fins  were  under  the  tide. 
And  they  lashed  as  they  passed  the  vessel's  side, 
And  their  filmy  eyes,  all  huge  and  grim. 
Glared  fiercely  up,  and  they  glared  at  him. 

Now  freshens  the  gale,  and  the  brave  ship  goes 

Like  an  uncurbed  steed  along ; 
A  sheet  of  flame  is  the  spray  she  throws, 
As  her  gallant  bow  the  water  ploughs, 

But  the  ship  is  fleet  and  strong ; 
The  topsail  is  reefed,  and  the  sails  are  furled. 
And  onward  she  sweeps  o'er  the  watery  world, 
And  dippeth  her  spars  in  the  surging  flood ; 
But  there  cometh  no  chill  to  the  mariner's  blood. 

Wildly  she  rocks,  but  he  swingeth  at  ease. 

And  holdeth  by  the  shroud  ; 
And  as  she  careens  to  the  crowding  breeze, 
The  gaping  deep  the  mariner  sees, 

And  the  surging  heareth  loud. 


ELIZABETH   OAKES  SMITH. 


Was  that  a  face,  looking  up  at  him, 
With  its  pallid  cheek,  and  its  cold  eyes  dim  ? 
Did  it  beckon  him  down  ?  Did  it  call  his  name 
Now  rolleth  the  ship  the  way  whence  it  came. 

The  mariner  looked,  and  he  saw,  with  dread, 

A  face  he  knew  too  well ; 
And  the  cold  eyes  glared,  the  eyes  of  the  dead. 
And  its  long  hair  out  on  the  wave  was  spread,— 

Was  there  a  tale  to  tell  ? 
The  stout  ship  rocked  with  a  reeling  speed. 
And  the  mariner  groaned,  as  well  he  need — 
For  ever  down,  as  she  plunged  on  her  side, 
The  dead  face  gleamed  from  the  briny  tide. 

Bethink  thee,  mariner,  well  of  the  past ; 

A  voice  calls  loud  for  thee  : 
There 's  a  stifled  prayer,  the  first,  the  last ; 
The  plunging  ship  on  her  beams  is  cast, — 

0,  where  shall  thy  burial  be  ? 
Bethink  thee  of  oaths  that  were  lightly  spoken ; 
Bethink  thee  of  vows  that  were  lightly  broken ; 
Bethink  thee  of  all  that  is  dear  to  thee, 
For  thou  art  alone  on  the  raging  sea : 

Alone  in  the  dark,  alone  on  the  wave. 

To  buffet  the  storm  alone  ; 
To  struggle  aghast  at  thy  watery  grave. 
To  struggle  and  feel  there  is  none  to  save ! 

God  shield  thee,  helpless  one  ! 


28 


ELIZABETH   OAKES  SMITH. 


The  stout  limbs  yield,  for  their  strength  is  past ; 
The  trembling  hands  on  the  deep  are  cast ; 
The  white  brow  gleams  a  moment  more, 
Then  slowly  sinks, — the  struggle  is  o'er. 

Down,  down  where  the  storm  is  hushed  to  sleep, 
Where  the  sea  its  dirge  shall  swell ; 

Where  the  amber-drops  for  thee  shall  weep. 

And  the  rose-lipped  shell  its  music  keep ; 
There  thou  shalt  slumber  well. 

The  gem  and  the  pearl  lie  heaped  at  thy  side ; 

They  fell  from  the  neck  of  the  beautiful  bride, 

From  the  strong  man's  hand,  from  the  maiden's  brow, 

As  they  slowly  sunk  to  the  wave  below. 

A  peopled  home  is  the  ocean-bed ; 

The  mother  and  child  are  there  : 
The  fervent  youth  and  the  hoary  head. 
The  maid,  with  her  floating  locks  outspread. 

The  babe,  with  its  silken  hair : 
As  the  water  moveth,  they  lightly  sway. 
And  the  tranquil  lights  on  their  features  play  : 
And  there  is  each  cherished  and  beautiful  form, 
Away  from  decay,  and  away  from  the  storm. 


ELIZABETH  OAKES  SMITH. 


29 


EROS  AND  ANTEROS. 

'Tis  said  sweet  Psyche  gazed  one  night 

On  Cupid's  sleeping  face — 
Gazed,  in  her  fondness,  on  the  wight, 

In  his  unstudied  grace. 
But  he,  awakened  by  the  glare 

Of  light  at  such  a  time. 
Fled  from  the  side  of  Psyche  there, 

As  from  a  thing  of  crime. 

Ay,  weak  the  fable,  false  the  ground, 

Sweet  Psyche  veiled  her  face ; 
Well-knowing  Love,  if  ever  found. 

Will  never  leave  his  place. 
Unfound  as  yet,  and  weary  grown, 

She  had  mistook  another; 
'Twas  but  Love's  semblance  that  had  flown, 

Not  Eros,  but  his  brother. 


DEATH  AND  RESURRECTION. 

Our  life  is  onward — and  our  very  dust 
Is  longing  for  its  change,  that  it  may  take 
New  combinations;  that  the  seed  may  break 
From  its  dark  thraldom,  where  it  lies  in  trust 
Of  its  great  resurrection.    Not  the  rust 


30 


ELIZABETH   OAKES  SMITH. 


Of  cold  inertness  shall  defeat  the  life 

Of  e'en  the  poorest  weed,  which  after  strife 

Shall  spring  from  our  dead  ashes;  and  which  must 

Bless  some  else  barren  waste  with  its  meek  grace. 

And  germs  of  beautiful  vast  thought,  concealed 

Lie  deep  within  the  soul,  which  evermore 

Onward  and  upward  strive.    The  last  in  place 

Enfolds  the  higher  yet  to  be  revealed, 

And  each  the  sepulchre  of  that  which  went  before. 


MIDNIGHT. 

Afar  in  this  deep  dell,  by  the  seashore. 
So  resteth  all  things  from  the  summer  heat, 
That  I  the  Naiads  hear  from  limber  feet 

Let  fall  the  crystal  as  in  days  of  yore. 

Old  Sea-gods  lean  upon  the  rocks,  and  pour 

The  waves  adown — the  light-winged  zephyrs  greet 
The  tittering  Nymphs,  that  from  their  green  retreat 

With  pearl-shells  play  and  listen  to  their  roar ; 
Endymion  sure  on  yonder  headland  sleeps 

Where  Dian's  veil  floats  out  a  silver  sheen  — 
And  large-eyed  Pan  amid  the  lotus  peeps 

Where  gleams  an  ivory  arm  the  leaves  between — 
Nor  stirs  a  restless  hoof,  lest  his  big  heart, 
O'erfilled  with  love,  should  slumbering  Echo  start. 


ELIZABETH  OAKES  SMITH. 

THE  SEEN  AND  THE  UNSEEN. 
"  As  in  a  glass  darkly." — St.  Paul. 

We  pass  along  with  careless  tread, 

Where  vine  and  buds  are  springing; 
We  smile,  for  all  above  our  head 

Are  light  and  gladness  ringing, 
Unconscious  that  beneath  our  feet, 

The  lava  flood  is  leaping. 
That  in  the  pleasant  summer  heat. 

The  lightning  flash  is  sleeping : 

And  human  eyes  each  other  meet. 

With  meanings  sealed  for  ever. 
And  loving  lips  each  other  greet, 

Their  tale  reveal,  ah !  never — 
And  smiles,  cold  beaming  smiles  go  round. 

The  breaking  heart  concealing, 
And  temples  are  with  garlands  crowned. 

Nor  they  their  throbs  revealing. 

I  too,  for  seeming  must  be  mine, 

With  careless  words  shall  greet  thee, 
Although  the  slightest  tone  of  thine. 

Like  music  will  entreat  me — 
And  I  shall  coldly  meet  thine  hand, 

'Tis  thus  the  world  is  going, 
Like  mocking  effigies  we  stand, 

No  one  his  neighbour  knowing. 


32 


ELIZABETH  OAKES  SMITH. 


Ah!  better  thus  than  each  should  know 

His  brother's  heart-felt  grieving; 
For  who  could  bide  the  sight  of  woe, 

Which  bears  of  no  relieving? 
And  who  could  list  the  mournful  tone, 

From  every  heart  upswelling. 
Where  hopes  are  dying  one  by  one. 

And  hear  their  death-dirge  knelling? 

Oh !  should  a  sickness  of  the  heart, 

A  weariness  come  o'er  thee. 
Would  that  these  lines  might  peace  impart. 

Might  unto  joy  restore  thee. 
And  thou,  with  dreamy,  half-closed  eyes, 

Would'st  o'er  the  missive  ponder, 
While  floating  faintly  should  arise 

A  form  of  light  and  wonder. 

Oh,  then,  bethink  that  there  is  one. 

Though  none  the  secret  readeth. 
Whose  soul  for  ever  and  alone. 

For  thee  in  secret  pleadeth; 
Who  trembles  when  thy  name  is  heard, 

Yet  meekly  would  be  dreaming, 
That  had  we  dared  to  breathe  one  word, 

Thy  coldness  had  been  seeming. 


ELIZABETH  OAKES  SMITH. 


33 


STANZAS. 

0  God  !  that  we  should  live,  the  dull  pulse  beat, 
When  all  that  should  be  life  is  cold  and  sere — 
When  thought,  which,  angel-like,  is  high  and  fleet, 
Is  crushed  to  earth,  what  doth  the  spirit  here ! 
And  yet,  and  yet  I  would  not  feebly  shrink 
From  this  dread  cup  of  suffering — let  me  drink. 

For  in  this  darkest  hour  there  cometh  yet 
A  soothing  ministry,  unseen  but  felt — 
An  inward  prompting — Thou  wilt  not  forget — 
And  tears  gush  forth — the  eyes  that  would  not  melt, 
Trained  in  the  school  of  grief,  at  thought  of  Thee 
Pour  forth  their  pent-up  fountains,  fast  and  free. 

Life  Giver !  who  hast  planted  in  the  soul 
This  seed-time  dread  of  hopes  too  high  for  earth. 
Emotions,  yearnings  time  may  not  control, 
In  heaven  alone,  0  !  hath  the  harvest  birth  ? 
Oh  wherefore  doth  the  heart,  deluded  still, 
Its  broken  urn  from  earth's  dark  fountains  fill  ? 

Not  at  the  gory  wheel,  the  fiery  stake — 
Not  where  the  rack  gives  forth  the  lingering  breath — 
Not  there  alone  do  martyred  spirits  break. 
Not  there  alone  dost  thou  find  such,  0  Death ! 
Another  test ;  crushed  by  a  hidden  weight. 
There  are  who  martyrs  live  to  their  dark  fate. 


34 


ELIZABETH  OAKES  SMITH. 


REGRETS. 

Meseemed,  as  I  did  walk  a  crystal  wall, 
Translucent  in  the  hue  of  rosy  morn, 
And  saw  Eurydice,  from  Orpheus  torn, 

Lift  her  white  brow  from  out  its  heavy  pall, 

With  sweet  lips  echoing  his  melodious  call. 

And  following  him,  love-led  and  music-boine — 
A  sharp  and  broken  cry,  and  she  was  gone  ! — 

Thou  fairest  grief — thou  saddest  type  of  all 
Our  sorrowing  kind !  Oh !  lost  Eurydice ! 

Thy  deathful  cry  thrilled  in  mine  every  vein, 
When  Orpheus  turned  him  back,  thus  losing  thee, 

His  broken  lute  and  melancholy  plain 

All  time  prolongs — the  still  unceasing  flow 
Of  unavailing  grief — and  a  regretful  woe. 


HANNAH  F.  GOULD. 


This  lady  is  a  native  of  Lancaster,  Vermont,  but  for  a  number  of  years 
has  resided  at  Newburyport,  Massachusetts.  Her  writings,  while  they  are 
devoid  of  imagination  and  passion,  possess  more  delicacy  of  sentiment 
and  playfulness  of  fancy  than  any  other  of  the  female  poets,  with  the 
exception  of  Mrs.  Osgood's.  In  a  polite  note  she  informs  us  that  her  pub- 
lished poetry  already  comprises  three  volumes,  and  that  the  whole  mass 
of  what  she  has  written  is  going  through  a  new  edition.  We  are  sure 
that  they  will  meet,  as  heretofore,  with  a  hearty  reception. 

THE  PEBBLE  AND  THE  ACORN. 

"  I  AM  a  Pebble !  and  yield  to  none  !" 
Were  the  swelling  words  of  a  tiny  stone, 
"  Nor  time  nor  seasons  can  alter  me ; 
I  am  abiding,  while  ages  flee. 
The  pelting  hail  and  the  drizzling  rain 
Have  tried  to  soften  me  long,  in  vain : 
And  the  tender  dew  has  sought  to  melt, 
Or  touch  my  heart ;  but  it  was  not  felt. 
There 's  none  that  can  tell  about  my  birth. 
For  I 'm  as  old  as  the  big,  round  earth. 
The  children  of  men  arise,  and  pass 
Out  of  the  world,  like  the  blades  of  grass ; 


HANNAH  F.  GOULD. 


And  many  a  foot  on  me  has  trod. 
That 's  gone  from  sight,  and  under  the  sod  ! 
I  am  a  Pebble  !  but  who  art  thou. 
Rattling  along  from  the  restless  bough?" 

The  Acorn  was  shocked  at  this  rude  salute. 
And  lay  for  a  moment  abashed  and  mute ; 
She  never  before  had  been  so  near 
This  gravelly  ball,  the  mundane  sphere ; 
And  she  felt  for  a  time  at  a  loss  to  know 
How  to  answer  a  thing  so  coarse  and  low. 
But  to  give  reproof  of  a  nobler  sort 
Than  the  angry  look,  or  the  keen  retort. 
At  length  she  said,  in  a  gentle  tone, 
"  Since  it  has  happened  that  I  am  thrown 
From  the  lighter  element,  where  I  grew, 
Down  to  another,  so  hard  and  new. 
And  beside  a  personage  so  august, 
Abased,  I  will  cover  my  head  with  dust. 
And  quickly  retire  from  the  sight  of  one 
Whom  time,  nor  season,  nor  storm,  nor  sun. 
Nor  the  gentle  dew,  nor  the  grinding  heel 
Has  ever  subdued,  or  made  to  feel !" 
And  soon,  in  the  earth,  she  sunk  away 
From  the  comfortless  spot  where  the  Pebble  lay. 

But  it  was  not  long  ere  the  soil  was  broke 
By  the  peering  head  of  an  infant  oak ! 
And,  as  it  arose,  and  its  branches  spread. 
The  Pebble  looked  up,  and  wondering  said, 


HANNAH  F.  GOULD. 


"  A  modest  Acorn !  never  to  tell 

What  was  enclosed  in  its  simple  shell ; 

That  the  pride  of  the  forest  was  folded  up 

In  the  narrow  space  of  its  little  cup ! 

And  meekly  to  sink  in  the  darksome  earth, 

Which  proves  that  nothing  could  hide  her  worth 

And  oh !  how  many  will  tread  on  me, 

To  come  and  admire  the  beautiful  tree 

Whose  head  is  towering  towards  the  sky, 

Above  such  a  worthless  thing  as  I ! 

Useless  and  vain,  a  cumberer  here, 

I  have  been  idling  from  year  to  year. 

But  never,  from  this,  shall  a  vaunting  word 

From  the  humbled  Pebble  again  be  heard. 

Till  something  without  me  or  within, 

Shall  show  the  purpose  for  which  I  've  been !" 

The  Pebble  its  vow  could  not  forget, 

And  it  lies  there  wrapped  in  silence  yet. 


THE  SILK-WORM'S  WILL. 

On  a  plain  rush  hurdle  a  silk-worm  lay, 
When  a  proud  young  princess  came  that  way : 
The  haughty  child  of  a  human  king 
Threw  a  sidelong  glance  at  the  humble  thing. 
That  received  with  silent  gratitude 
From  the  mulberry  leaf  her  simple  food. 


38 


HANNAH  F.  GOULD. 


And  shrunk,  half  scorn  and  half  disgust, 
Away  from  her  sister  child  of  the  dust ; 
Declaring  she  never  yet  could  see 
Why  a  reptile  form  like  this  should  be  ; 
And  that  she  was  not  made  with  nerves  so  firm, 
As  calmly  to  stand  by  a  "  crawling  worm  !" 

With  mute  forbearance  the  silk-worm  took 

The  taunting  words  and  the  spurning  look, 

Alike  a  stranger  to  self  and  pride. 

She 'd  no  disquiet  from  aught  beside ; 

And  lived  of  a  meekness  and  peace  possessed. 

Which  these  debar  from  the  human  breast. 

She  only  wished  for  the  harsh  abuse. 

To  find  some  way  to  become  of  use 

To  the  haughty  daughter  of  lordly  man ; 

And  thus  did  she  lay  a  noble  plan 

To  teach  her  wisdom,  and  make  it  plain 

That  the  humble  worm  was  not  made  in  vain : 

A  plan  so  generous,  deep,  and  high. 

That,  to  carry  it  out,  she  must  even  die ! 

"  No  more,"  said  she,  "  will  I  drink  or  eat ! 

I  '11  spin  and  weave  me  a  winding  sheet. 

To  wrap  me  up  from  the  sun's  clear  light. 

And  hide  my  form  from  her  wounded  sight. 

In  secret  then,  till  my  end  draws  nigh, 

I  '11  toil  for  her  ;  and,  when  I  die, 

I  '11  leave  behind,  as  a  farewell  boon 

To  the  proud  young  princess,  my  whole  cocoon, 


HANNAH  F.  GOULD. 


39 


To  be  reeled  and  wove  to  a  shining  lace. 
And  hung  in  a  veil  o'er  her  scornful  face ! 
And  when  she  can  calmly  draw  her  breath 
Through  the  very  threads  that  caused  my  death  ; 
When  she  finds,  at  length,  she  has  nerves  so  firm, 
As  to  wear  the  shroud  of  a  crawling  worm, 
May  she  bear  in  mind,  that  she  walks  with  pride 
In  the  winding-sheet  where  the  silk-worm  died." 


THE  FROST. 

The  Frost  looked  forth  one  still,  clear  night, 
And  whispered  "  Now  I  shall  be  out  of  sight ; 
So  through  the  valley  and  over  the  height, 

In  silence  I  '11  take  my  way. 
I  will  not  go  on  like  that  blustering  train — 
The  Wind  and  the  Snow,  the  Hail  and  the  Rain, 
Who  make  so  much  bustle  and  noise  in  vain ; 

But  I  '11  be  as  busy  as  they." 

Then  he  flew  to  the  mountain,  and  powdered  its  crest ; 
He  lit  on  the  trees,  and  their  boughs  he  dressed 
In  diamond  beads ;  and  over  the  breast 

Of  the  quivering  lake  he  spread 
A  coat  of  mail,  that  it  need  not  fear 
The  downward  point  of  many  a  spear 
That  he  hung  on  its  margin,  far  and  near. 

Where  a  rock  could  rear  its  head. 

6 


40 


HANNAH  F.  GOULD. 


He  went  to  the  windows  of  those  who  slept, 
And  over  each  pane,  like  a  fairy,  crept ; 
Wherever  he  breathed,  wherever  he  stepped. 

By  the  light  of  the  moon,  were  seen 
Most  beautiful  things ;  there  were  flowers  and  trees ; 
There  were  bevies  of  birds,  and  swarms  of  bees ; 
There  were  cities  with  temples  and  towers ;  and  these 

All  pictured  in  silver  sheen ! 

But  he  did  one  thing  that  was  hardly  fair — 
He  peeped  in  the  cupboard,  and  finding  there 
That  all  had  forgotten  for  him  to  prepare, 

"  Now,  just  to  set  them  a-thinking, 
I  'U  bite  this  basket  of  fruit,"  said  he, 
"  This  costly  pitcher  I  '11  burst  in  three ; 
And  the  glass  of  water  they  've  left  for  me 

Shall  '  tchick !'  to  tell  them  I 'm  drinking !" 


THE  BOY  AND  THE  FLOWERS. 

Radiant  with  his  spirit's  light 
Was  the  little  beauteous  child. 

Sporting  round  a  fountain  bright — 
Playing  through  the  flowerets  wild. 

Where  they  grew  he  lightly  stepped. 
Cautious  not  a  leaf  to  crush ; 

Then  about  the  fount  he  leapt. 
Shouting  at  its  merry  gush. 


HANNAH   F.  GOULD 


41 


While  the  sparkling  waters  welled, 
Laughing  as  they  bubbled  up, 

In  his  lily  hands  he  held, 
Closely  clasped,  a  silver  cup. 

Now  he  put  it  forth  to  fill; 

Then  he  bore  it  to  the  flowers; 
Through  his  fingers  there  to  spill 

What  it  held,  in  mimic  showers. 

"  Open,  pretty  buds,"  said  he, 

"  Open  to  the  air  and  sun. 
So  to-morrow  I  may  see 

What  my  rain  to-day  has  done. 

"  Yes,  you  will,  you  will,  I  know. 
For  the  drink  I  give  you  now. 

Burst  your  little  cups  and  blow. 
When  I 'm  gone  and  can't  tell  how. 

"  Oh !  I  wish  I  could  but  see 
How  God's  finger  touches  you; 

When  your  sides  unclasp,  and  free 
Let  your  leaves  and  odours  through. 

"I  would  watch  you  all  the  night. 

Nor  in  darkness  be  afraid. 
Only  once  to  see  aright 

How  a  beauteous  flower  is  made. 


HANNAH  F.  GOULD. 


"Now  remember,  I  shall  come 
In  the  morning  from  my  bed, 

Here  to  find  among  you,  some 

With  your  brightest  colours  spread 

To  his  buds  he  hastened  out 
At  the  dewy  morning  hour, 

Crying,  with  a  joyous  shout, 

"  God  has  made  of  each  a  flower !' 

Precious  must  the  ready  faith 

Of  the  little  children  be, 
In  the  sight  of  Him  who  saith, 

"Suffer  them  to  come  to  me." 

Answered  by  the  smile  of  heaven 
Is  the  infant's  offering  found, 

Though  "  a  cup  of  water  given," 
Even  to  the  thirsty  ground. 


THE  YOUNG  SETTING  MOON. 

The  fair  young  moon,  in  a  silver  bow. 
Looks  back  from  the  bending  west. 

Like  a  weary  soul  that  is  glad  to  go 
To  the  long-sought  place  of  rest. 


HANNAH   F.  GOULD. 


43 


Her  crescent  lies  in  a  beaming  crown, 

On  the  distant  hill's  dark  head, 
Serene  as  the  righteous  looking  down 

On  the  world,  from  his  dying  bed. 

Her  rays,  to  our  view,  grow  few  and  faint , 
Her  light  is  at  length  withdrawn ! 

And  she,  like  a  calmly  departing  saint, 
To  her  far-off  home  is  gone ! 

0 !  what  could  have  made  the  moon  so  bright, 
Till  her  work  for  the  earth  was  done  ? 

'T  was  the  glory  drawn  from  a  greater  light ! 
'T  was  the  face  of  the  radiant  sun ! 

For  she  on  her  absent  king  would  look, 
Which  the  world  saw  not,  the  while  ; 

Her  face  from  him  all  its  beauty  took. 

And  conveyed  to  the  world  his  smile. 

By  him,  through  night,  has  the  moon  been  led 
'Mid  the  clouds  that  crossed  the  sky, 

While  she  drew  her  beams  o'er  the  earth  to  shed. 
From  the  god  where  she  fixed  her  eye. 

And  thus  does  Faith,  'mid  her  trials,  view, 

In  the  God  to  whom  she  clings,  ^ 

A  Sun,  whose  glories,  for  ever  new, 
Unfold  in  his  healing  wings ! 


HANNAH  F.  GOULD. 


'T  is  this  that  will  guide  our  course  aright 
Though  grief  overcloud  the  heart ; 

And  it  is  but  faith  being  lost  in  sight, 

That  is  meant,  when  the  good  depart 


LYDIA  H.  SIGOURNEY. 

Mks,  Sigourney,  whose  maiden  name  was  Huntley,  is  a  native  of 
Norwich,  Connecticut.  Her  precocity,  both  mental  and  physical,  was 
early  visible ;  in  her  third  year  she  read  with  distinct  enunciation,  and 
wrote  verses  at  eight,  which  were  marked  by  rhythmical  accuracy.  Her 
prevailing  desire  from  childhood  was  to  be  fitted  for  the  profession  of 
teacher.  It  had  not  been  merely  a  musing  revery,  but  pointed  to  the 
acquisition  of  difficult  or  abstruse  study,  through  the  whole  course  of 
education.  She  began  with  two  young  ladies  as  day-scholars  in  her  own 
chamber,  and  afterward  shared  with  a  friend  the  charge  of  a  large  school, 
at  two  miles  distance  from  her  home. 

Through  the  influence  of  a  benevolent  friend,  Daniel  Wadsworth,  Esq., 
of  Hartford,  she  obtained  in  that  pleasant  city  a  school  after  her  own 
heart ;  and  from  the  same  gentleman  received  the  first  encouragement  to 
poetical  labours.  Through  his  persevering  zeal  in  selecting  from  her 
journals,  and  a  mass  of  other  manuscripts,  her  first  volume,  consisting  of 
miscellaneous  poetry  and  prose,  ventured  before  the  public. 

The  beautiful  banks  of  the  Connecticut,  to  which  she  went  as  a  visitant, 
became  her  permanent  residence  by  her  marriage  with  Charles  Sigourney, 
Esq.,  a  merchant  of  eminence  and  a  man  of  distinguished  family  and  edu- 
cation. A  few  years  since  she  visited  Europe,  where  she  was  received 
with  distinction,  and  with  her  return  brought  many  valuable  friendships 
and  delightful  recollections.  Her  writings  are  modified  in  subject  by  the 
multifarious  forms  of  benevolence  that  mark  the  present  age,  and  the  time 
that  she  would  fain  systematically  devote  to  them  is  so  much  interrupted 
by  calls  and  the  claims  of  an  extensive  correspondence,  as  to  forbid  that 
consecutive  labour  which  is  essential  to  the  ambitious  aspirant  of  literary 
fame. 


46 


LYDIA  H.  SIGOURNEY. 


RETURN  OF  NAPOLEON  FROM  ST.  HELENA. 

Ho !  City  of  the  gay ! 

Paris! — what  festal  rite 
Doth  call  thy  thronging  million  forth, 

All  eager  for  the  sight? 
Thy  soldiers  line  the  streets 

In  fixed  and  stern  array, 
With  buckled  helm,  and  bayonet, 

As  on  the  battle-day. 

By  square  and  fountain  side. 

Heads  in  dense  masses  rise, 
And  tower,  and  tree,  and  battlement 

Are  studded  thick  with  eyes. 
Comes  there  some  conqueror  home 

In  triumph  from  the  fight, 
With  spoil,  and  captives  in  his  train, 

The  trophies  of  his  might  ? 

The  "Arc  de  Triomphe"  glows. 

A  martial  host  are  nigh, 
France  pours  in  long  succession  forth 

Her  pomp  of  chivalry ; 
No  clarion  marks  their  way. 

No  victor-trump  is  blown, 
Why  march  they  on  so  silently. 

Told  by  their  tread  alone  ? 


LYDIA  H.  SIGOURNEY. 

Behold,  in  gorgeous  show, 

A  gorgeous  car  of  state ! 
The  white-plumed  steeds,  in  cloth  of  gold, 

Bow  down  beneath  its  weight. 
And  the  noble  war-horse  led 

Caparisoned  along. 
Seems  fiercely  for  his  lord  to  ask. 

As  his  red  eye  scans  the  throng. 

Who  rideth  on  yon  car? 

The  incense  flameth  high — 
Comes  there  some  demi-god  of  old? 

No  answer! — no  reply! 
Who  rideth  on  yon  car? 

No  shout  his  minions  raise. 
But  by  a  lofty  chapel-dome 

The  muffled  hero  stays; — 

A  king  is  waiting  there. 

And  with  uncovered  head 
Receives  him,  in  the  name  of  France — 

Receiveth  whom? — The  deed! 
Was  he  not  buried  deep 

In  island-cavern  drear, 
Girt  by  the  sounding  ocean-surge  ? 

How  came  that  sleeper  here? 

Was  there  no  rest  for  him 
Beneath  a  peaceful  pall. 


48  LYDIA  H.  SIGOURNEY. 

That  thus  he  brake  his  rocky  tomb 
Ere  the  strong  angel's  call? 

Hark!  hark!  the  requiem  swells, 
A  deep,  soul-thrilling  strain, 

A  requiem  never  to  be  heard 
By  mortal  ear  again. 

A  requiem  for  the  chief 

Whose  fiat  millions  slew, 
The  soaring  Eagle  of  the  Alps, 

The  crushed  at  Waterloo; — 
The  banished  who  returned, 

The  dead  who  rose  again. 
And  rode  in  his  shroud  the  billows  proud 

To  the  sunny  banks  of  Seine. 

They  laid  him  there,  in  state. 

That  warrior  strong  and  bold, 
The  imperial  crown  with  jewels  bright 

Upon  his  ashes  cold ; 
While  round  those  columns  proud 

The  blazoned  banners  wave 
That  on  a  hundred  fields  he  won 

With  the  heart's-blood  of  the  brave. 

And  sternly  there  kept  guard 
His  veterans  scarred  and  old. 

Whose  wounds  of  Lodi's  cleaving  bridge, 
And  purple  Leipsic  told; 


LYDIA  H.  SIGOURNEY. 


Yes,  there,  with  arms  reversed, 
Slow  pacing,  night  and  day, 

Close  watch,  beside  that  coffin  kept 
These  warriors,  grim  and  gray. 

A  cloud  is  on  their  brow, — 

Is  it  sorrow  for  the  dead  ? 
Or  memory  of  the  fearful  strife 

Where  their  country's  legions  bled  ? 
Of  Borodino's  blood? 

Of  Beresina's  wail? 
The  horrors  of  that  dire  retreat, 

Which  turned  old  History  pale? 

A  cloud  is  on  their  brow, — 

Is  it  sorrow  for  the  dead? 
Or  a  shuddering  at  the  wintry  shaft 

By  Russian  tempests  sped  ? 
When  countless  mounds  of  snow 

Marked  the  sad  conscript's  grave, 
And  pierced  by  frost  and  famine,  sank 

The  bravest  of  the  brave. 

A  thousand  trembling  lamps 
The  gathered  darkness  mock. 

And  velvet  drapes  his  hearse,  who  died 
On  bare  Helena's  rock; 

And  from  the  altar  near 
A  never-dying  hymn 


50 


LYDIA  H.  SIGOURNEY. 


Is  lifted  by  the  chanting  priests 
Beside  by  the  taper  dim. 

Mysterious  one  !  and  proud ! 

In  the  land  where  shadows  reign, 
Hast  thou  met  the  flocking  ghosts  of  those 

Who  at  thy  nod  were  slain  ? 
Oh!  when  the  cry  of  that  spectral  host, 

Like  a  rushing  blast  shall  be, 
What  will  thine  answer  be  to  them  ? 

And  what,  thy  God's  to  thee  ? 


SOLITUDE. 

Deep  Solitude  I  sought.    There  was  a  dell 
Where  woven  shades  shut  out  the  eye  of  day. 
While  towering  near  the  rugged  mountains  made 
Dark  background  'gainst  the  sky. 

Thither  I  went, 
And  bade  my  spirit  taste  that  lonely  fount 
For  which  it  long  had  thirsted  'mid  the  strife 
And  fever  of  the  world,    I  thought  to  be 
There  without  witness.    But  the  violet's  eye 
Looked  up  to  greet  me,  the  fresh  wild-rose  smiled, 
And  the  young,  pendent  vine-flower  kissed  my  cheek. 
 There  were  glad  voices  too.    The  garrulous  brook 


LYDIA  H.  SIGOURNEY. 


51 


Untiring,  to  the  patient  pebbles  told 
Its  history.    Up  came  the  singing  breeze, 
And  the  broad  leaves  of  the  cool  poplar  spake 
Responsive,  every  one.    Yea — busy  life 
Woke  in  that  cell.    The  dexterous  spider  threw 
From  spray  to  spray,  his  silvery-tissued  snare ; 
The  thrifty  ant,  whose  curving  pincers  pierced 
The  rifled  grain,  toiled  toward  her  citadel ; 
To  her  sweet  hive  flew  back  the  loaded  bee ; 
While  on  her  wind-rocked  nest,  the  mother-bird 
Brooded  her  nurslings. 

And  I  strangely  thought 
To  be  alone,  and  silent,  in  thy  realm, 
Spirit  of  life  and  love ! — It  might  not  be  ! — 
There  is  no  solitude  in  thy  domains, 
Save  what  man  makes,  when  in  a  selfish  breast 
He  locks  his  joys,  and  shuts  out  others'  grief. 

 Thou  hast  not  left  thyself  in  this  wide  world 

Without  a  witness.    Even  thy  desert  place 

Speaketh  thy  name.    The  simple  flowers  and  streams 

Are  social  and  benevolent :  and  he 

Who  holdeth  converse  in  their  language  pure. 

Roaming  among  them  at  the  cool  of  day. 

Shall  find,  like  him  who  Eden's  garden  dressed, 

His  Maker  there,  to  bless  his  listening  heart. 


LYDIA  H.  SIGOURNEY. 


THE  WESTERN  EMIGRANT. 

An  axe  rang  sharply  'mid  those  forest  shades 
Which  from  creation  toward  the  skies  had  towered 
In  unshorn  beauty.    There,  with  vigorous  arm, 
Wrought  a  bold  Emigrant,  and  by  his  side 
His  little  son,  with  question  and  response 
Beguiled  the  toil. 

"  Boy,  thou  hast  never  seen 
Such  glorious  trees.    Hark,  when  their  giant  trunks 
Fall,  how  the  firm  earth  groans.    Bememberest  thou 
The  mighty  river,  on  whose  breast  we  sailed 
So  many  days  on  toward  the  setting  sun  ? 
Our  own  Connecticut,  compared  to  that, 
Was  but  a  creeping  stream." 

"  Father,  the  brook 
That  by  our  door  went  singing,  where  I  launched 
My  tiny  boat,  with  my  young  playmates  round 
When  school  was  o'er,  is  dearer  far  to  me 
Than  all  these  bold,  broad  waters.    To  my  eye 
They  are  as  strangers.    And  those  little  trees 
My  mother  nurtured  in  the  garden  bound 
Of  our  first  home,  from  whence  the  fragrant  peach 
Hung  in  its  ripening  gold,  were  fairer,  sure, 
Than  this  dark  forest,  shutting  out  the  day." 
— "What,  ho  ! — my  little  girl,"  and  with  light  step 
A  fairy  creature  hasted  toward  her  sire. 
And,  setting  down  the  basket  that  contained 


LYDIA  H.  SIGOURNEY. 


His  noon's  repast,  looked  upward  to  his  face 
With  sweet  confiding  smile. 

"  See,  dearest,  see, 
That  bright-winged  paroquet,  and  hear  the  song 
Of  yon  gay  red-bird,  echoing  through  the  trees, 
Making  rich  music.    Didst  thou  ever  hear, 
In  far  New  England,  such  a  mellow  tone  ?" 
— "I  had  a  robin  that  did  take  the  crumbs 
Each  night  and  morning,  and  his  chirping  voice 
Did  make  me  joyful,  as  I  went  to  tend 
My  snow-drops.    I  was  always  laughing  then 
In  that  first  home.    I  should  be  happier  now, 
Methinks,  if  I  could  find  among  these  dells 
The  same  fresh  violets." 

Slow  night  drew  on. 
And  round  the  rude  hut  of  the  Emigrant 
The  wrathful  spirit  of  the  rising  storm 
Spake  bitter  things.    His  weary  children  slept. 
And  he,  with  head  declined,  sat  listening  long 
To  the  swoln  waters  of  the  Illinois, 
Dashing  against  their  shores. 

Starting,  he  spake 
"  Wife !  did  I  see  thee  brush  away  a  tear  ? 
'T  was  even  so.    Thy  heart  was  with  the  halls 
Of  thy  nativity.    Their  sparkling  lights. 
Carpets,  and  sofas,  and  admiring  guests, 
Befit  thee  better  than  these  rugged  walls 
Of  shapeless  logs,  and  this  lone,  hermit  home." 
"No — no.    All  was  so  still  around,  methought 
Upon  mine  ear  that  echoed  hymn  did  steal, 


54  LYDIA  H.  SIGOURNEY. 

Which  'mid  the  church,  where  erst  we  paid  our  vows, 
So  tuneful  pealed.    But  tenderly  thy  voice 
Dissolved  the  illusion." 

And  the  gentle  smile 
Lighting  her  brow,  the  fond  caress  that  soothed 
Her  waking  infant,  reassured  his  soul 
That,  wheresoe'er  our  best  affections  dwell. 
And  strike  a  healthful  root,  is  happiness. 
Content,  and  placid,  to  his  rest  he  sank ; 
But  dreams,  those  wild  magicians,  that  do  play 
Such  pranks  when  reason  slumbers,  tireless  wrought 
Their  will  with  him 

Up  rose  the  thronging  mart 
Of  his  own  native  city — roof  and  spire 
All  glittering  bright,  in  fancy's  frost-work  ray. 
The  steed  his  boyhood  nurtured  proudly  neighed. 
The  favourite  dog  came  frisking  round  his  feet 
With  shrill  and  joyous  bark — familiar  doors 
Flew  open — greeting  hands  with  his  were  linked 
In  friendship's  grasp — he  heard  the  keen  debate 
From  congregated  haunts,  where  mind  with  mind 
Doth  blend  and  brighten — and  till  morning  roved 
'Mid  the  loved  scenery  of  his  native  land. 


LYDIA  H.  SIGOURNEY. 


55 


NIAGARA. 

Flow  on  for  ever,  in  thy  glorious  robe 
Of  terror  and  of  beauty.    Yea,  flow  on, 
Unfathomed  and  resistless.    God  hath  set 
His  rainbow  on  thy  forehead :  and  the  cloud 
Mantled  around  thy  feet.    And  He  doth  give 
Thy  voice  of  thunder  power  to  speak  of  Him 
Eternally — bidding  the  lip  of  man 
Keep  silence — and  upon  thine  altar  pour 
Incense  of  awe-struck  praise. 

Earth  fears  to  lift 
The  insect-trump  that  tells  her  trifling  joys 
Or  fleeting  triumphs,  'mid  the  peal  sublime 
Of  thy  tremendous  hymn.    Proud  Ocean  shrinks 
Back  from  thy  brotherhood,  and  all  his  waves 
Retire  abashed.    For  he  hath  need  to  sleep 
Sometimes,  like  a  spent  labourer,  calling  home 
His  boisterous  billows  from  their  vexing  play 
To  a  long,  dreary  calm  :  but  thy  strong  tide 
Faints  not,  nor  e'er,  with  failing  heart,  forgets 
Its  everlasting  lesson,  night  nor  day. 
The  morning  stars,  that  hailed  creation's  birth. 
Heard  thy  hoarse  anthem,  mixing  with  their  song 
Jehovah's  name ;  and  the  dissolving  fires 
That  wait  the  mandate  of  the  day  of  doom 

8 


56 


LYDIA  H.  SIGOURNEY. 


To  wreck  the  earth,  shall  find  it  deep  inscribed 
Upon  thy  rocky  scroll. 

The  lofty  trees 
That  list  thy  teachings,  scorn  the  lighter  lore 
Of  the  too  fitful  winds ;  while  their  young  leaves 
Gather  fresh  greenness  from  thy  living  spray, 
Yet  tremble  at  the  baptism.    Lo !  yon  birds. 
How  bold  they  venture  near,  dipping  their  wing 
In  all  thy  mist  and  foam  !    Perchance 't  is  meet 
For  them  to  touch  thy  garment's  hem,  or  stir 
Thy  diamond  wreath,  who  sport  upon  the  cloud 
Unblamed,  or  warble  at  the  gate  of  heaven 
Without  reproof.    But,  as  for  us,  it  seems 
Scarce  lawful,  with  our  erring  lips  to  talk 
Familiarly  of  thee.    Me  thinks,  to  trace 
Thine  awful  features  with  our  pencil's  point, 
Were  but  to  press  on  Sinai. 

Thou  dost  speak 
Alone  of  God,  who  poured  thee  as  a  drop 
From  His  right  hand — bidding  the  soul  that  looks 
Upon  thy  fearful  majesty  be  still. 
Be  humbly  wrapped  in  its  own  nothingness, 
And  lose  itself  in  Him. 


LYDIA  H.  SIGOURNEY. 


57 


THE  BELL  OF  THE  WRECK  * 

Toll!— Toll!— Toll! 

Thou  bell  by  billows  swung, 
And  night  and  day  thy  warning  lore 

Repeat  with  mournful  tongue : 
Toll  for  the  queenly  boat, 

Wrecked  on  yon  rocky  shore ; 
Sea-weed  is  in  her  palace  halls, 

She  rides  the  surge  no  more. 

Toll  for  the  master  bold, 

The  high-souled  and  the  brave, 
Who  ruled  her  like  a  thing  of  life 

Amid  the  crested  wave; 
Toll  for  the  hardy  crew, 

Sons  of  the  storm  and  blast, 
Who  long  the  tyrant  Ocean  dared — 

It  vanquished  them  at  last. 

Toll  for  the  man  of  God, 

Whose  hallowed  voice  of  prayer 

Rose  calm  above  the  gathered  groan 
Of  that  intense  despair, — 

*  The  bell  of  the  ill-fated  steamer  Atlantic,  being  sustained  by  a  rocky 
reef,  and  swept  by  the  wind  and  surge,  continued  to  toll,  as  if  in  requiem 
for  the  lost. 


58 


LYDIA  H.  SIGOURNEY. 


How  precious  were  those  tones 

On  the  sad  verge  of  life, 
Amid  the  fierce  and  freezing  storm, 

And  the  mountain-billows'  strife ! 

Toll  for  the  lover  lost 

To  the  gay  bridal  train — 
Bright  glows  a  picture  on  his  breast, 

Beneath  the  unfathomed  main; — 
One  from  her  casement  bendeth 

Long,  o'er  the  misty  sea, — 
He  cometh  not — pale  maiden — 

His  heart  is  cold  to  thee. 

Toll  for  the  absent  sire. 

Who  to  his  home  drew  near 
To  bless  that  glad  expecting  group — 

Fond  wife,  and  children  dear. 
They  heap  the  blazing  hearth. 

The  festal  board  is  spread. 
But  a  fearful  guest  is  at  the  gate, — 

Room  for  the  sheeted  dead! 

Toll  for  the  loved  and  fair, 

The  whelmed  beneath  the  tide. 
The  broken  harps,  around  whose  strings 

The  dull  sea-monsters  glide. 
Mother,  and  nursling  sweet 

Reft  from  the  household  throng. 
There 's  bitter  weeping  in  the  nest 

Where  breathed  their  soul  of  song. 


LYDIA  H.  SIGOURNEY. 


59 


Toll  for  the  hearts  that  bleed, 

'Neath  misery's  furrowed  trace, 
For  the  lone,  hapless  orphan,  left 

The  last  of  all  his  race. 
Yea,  with  thine  heaviest  knell. 

From  surge  to  echoing  shore, 
Toll  for  the  living — not  the  dead 

Whose  mortal  woes  are  o'er. 

Toll!  Toll!— Toll 

O'er  breeze  and  billow  free, 
And  with  thy  startling  voice  instruct 

Each  rover  of  the  sea; 
Tell  how  o'er  proudest  joys 

May  swift  destruction  sweep, 
And  bid  him  build  his  hopes  on  high, 

Lone  teacher  of  the  deep. 


LOUISA  JANE  HALL, 


The  author  of  "  Miriam  ;  a  Drama,"  is  a  native  of  Newburyport,  Massa- 
chusetts. Her  maiden  name  was  Park.  She  was  married  to  the  Rev. 
Edward  B.  Hall  in  1840,  and  resides  at  Providence,  Rhode  Island.  These 
extracts  are  supposed  to  be  spoken  by  Piso,  a  persecutor  of  the  Christians, 
at  Rome,  on  seeing  the  daughter  of  a  Hebrew  girl  whom  he  had  loved 
when  in  Palestine. 

FROM  THE   DRAMA   OF  MIRIAM. 

Beautiful  shadow  !  in  this  hour  of  wrath, 

What  dost  thou  here  ?    In  life  thou  wert  too  meek. 

Too  gentle  for  a  lover  stern  as  I. 

And,  since  I  saw  thee  last,  my  days  have  been 

Deep  steeped  in  sin  and  blood !    What  seekest  thou  ? 

I  have  grown  old  in  strife,  and  hast  thou  come. 

With  thy  dark  eyes  and  their  soul-searching  glance 

To  look  me  into  peace  ?    It  cannot  be. 

Go  back,  fair  spirit,  to  thine  own  dim  realms  ! 

He  whose  young  love  thou  didst  reject  on  earth, 

May  tremble  at  this  visitation  strange, 

But  never  can  know  peace  or  virtue  more  ! 

Thou  wert  a  Christian,  and  a  Christian  dog 

Did  win  thy  precious  love.    I  have  good  cause 

To  hate  and  scorn  the  whole  detested  race ; 

And  till  I  meet  that  man,  wliom  most  of  all 

My  soul  abhors,  will  I  go  on  and  slay ! 


LOUISA  JANE  HALL. 


61 


Fade,  vanish,  shadow  bright !    In  vain  that  look ! 
That  sweet,  sad  look !    My  lot  is  cast  in  blood ! 

^  ^  4f"  ^  ^ 

The  voice  that  won  me  first ! 
Oh,  what  a  tide  of  recollections  rush 
Upon  my  drowning  soul !  my  own  wild  love — 
Thy  scorn — the  long,  long  days  of  blood  and  guilt 
That  since  have  left  their  footprints  on  my  fate ! 
The  dark,  dark  nights  of  fevered  agony. 
When,  'mid  the  strife  and  struggling  of  my  dreams, 
The  gods  sent  thee  at  times  to  hover  round, 
Bringing  the  memory  of  those  peaceful  days 
When  I  beheld  thee  first !    But  never  yet 
Before  my  waking  eyes  hast  thou  appeared 
Distinct  and  visible  as  now ! 

^  ^  ■^J"  ^ 

I  deemed  I  looked  on  one  whose  bright  young  face 

First  glanced  upon  me  'mid  the  shining  leaves 

Of  a  green  bower  in  sunny  Palestine, 

In  my  youth's  prime  !    I  knew  the  dust. 

The  grave's  corroding  dust,  had  soiled 

That  spotless  brow  long  since.    A  shadow  fell 

Upon  the  soul  that  never  yet  knew  fear. 

But  it  is  past.    Earth  holds  not  what  I  dread ; 

And  what  the  gods  did  make  me  am  I  now. 

Thou  art  her  child!  I  could  not  harm  thee  now. 
Oh,  wonderful !  that  things  so  long  forgot — 
A  love  I  thought  so  crushed  and  trodden  down, 
Even  by  the  iron  tread  of  passion  wild — 


LOUISA  JANE  HALL. 


Ambition,  pride,  and,  worst  of  all,  revenge  — 
Revenge,  that  hath  shed  seas  of  Christian  blood ! 
To  think  this  heart  was  once  so  waxen  soft. 
And  then  congealed  so  hard,  that  nought  of  all 
Which  hath  been  since  could  ever  have  the  power 
To  wear  away  the  image  of  that  girl — 
That  fair  young  Christian  girl !    'T  was  a  wild  love 
But  I  was  young,  a  soldier  in  strange  lands. 
And  she,  in  very  gentleness,  said  nay 
So  timidly,  I  hoped — until,  ye  gods ! 
She  loved  another !    Yet  I  slew  him  not ! 

^f"  ^  ^  ^  ^ 

I  will  shed  blood  no  more ;  for  I  have  known 

What  sort  of  peace  deep-glutted  vengeance  brings. 

My  son  is  brave,  but  of  a  gentler  mind 

Than  I  have  been.    His  eyes  shall  never  more 

Be  grieved  with  sight  of  sinless  blood  poured  forth 

From  tortured  veins.    Go  forth,  ye  gentle  two ! 

Children  of  her  who  might  perhaps  have  poured 

Her  own  meek  spirit  o'er  my  nature  stern. 

Since  the  bare  image  of  her  buried  charms, 

Soft  gleaming  from  your  youthful  brows,  hath  power 

To  stir  my  spirit  thus !    But  go  ye  forth ! 

Ye  leave  an  altered  and  a  milder  man 

Than  him  ye  sought. 


LYDIA  JANE  PEIRSON. 


Mrs.  Peirson  is  a  native  of  Middletown,  Connecticut,  and  the  daughter 
of  Mr.  William  Wheeler.  When  about  sixteen  years  of  age,  she  removed 
with  her  father  to  Canandaigua,  New  York,  where  she  was  soon  after  mar- 
ried. In  company  with  her  husband,  she  then  removed  to  the  interior  of 
Pennsylvania,  to  reside  in  a  portion  of  the  state  which  was  at  that  time  an 
unbroken  wilderness,  but  where  Mr.  Peirson  owned  a  tract  of  land.  Hav- 
ing made  a  path  through  the  forest,  they  took  up  their  abode  in  a  log  cabin, 
five  miles  from  any  human  habitation.  During  the  summer,  the  wild- 
ness  and  novelty  of  the  scene  afforded  her  ample  amusement;  but  when 
winter  came,  with  its  snows  and  winds,  penetrating  the  doors,  windows,  and 
crevices,  it  must  have  produced  a  reality  of  desolation  and  loneliness  which 
her  vivid  imagination  had  never  pictured.  It  was  in  those  dark  seasons 
that  she  had  recourse  to  the  pen,  to  lessen  the  dreariness  of  her  situation. 
She  has  written  for  the  various  Annuals  and  Magazines  of  the  country,  and 
in  1846  collected  her  poems  in  two  volumes,  which  have  been  favourably 
received.  In  a  letter  to  a  friend  she  remarks :  "  If  mine  had  not  been  an 
eminently  cheerful  and  hopeful  spirit,  it  would  long  ago  have  sunk  irre- 
trievably ;  but  it  pleased  the  Providence  that  marked  my  path  to  give  me 
strength  to  do,  and  patience  to  endure." 

MY  MUSE. 

Born  of  the  sunlight,  and  the  dew, 

That  met  amongst  the  flowers, 
That  on  the  river  margin  grew, 

Benea:th  the  willow  bowers; 

9 


64 


LYDIA  JANE  PEIRSON. 


Her  earliest  pillow  was  a  wreath 

Of  violets  newly  blown, 
And  the  meek  incense  of  their  breath 

At  once  became  her  own. 

Her  cradle-hymn  the  river  sung, 

In  that  same  liquid  tone 
With  which  it  gave,  when  earth  was  young, 

Praise  to  the  Living  One. 
The  breeze  that  lay  upon  its  breast 

Responded  with  a  sigh;  — 
And  there  the  ring-dove  built  her  nest 

And  sung  her  lullaby. 

The  only  nurse  she  ever  knew 

Was  Nature,  free,  and  wild, — 
Such  was  her  birth,  and  so  she  grew 

A  moody,  wayward  child, 
Who  loved  to  climb  the  rocky  steep, 

To  ford  the  mountain  stream. 
To  lie  beside  the  sounding  deep. 

And  weave  the  magic  dream. 

She  loved  the  path  with  shadows  dim. 

Beneath  the  dark-leaved  trees, 
Where  Nature's  feather  poets  sing 

Their  sweetest  melodies; 
To  dance  amongst  the  pensile  stems 

Where  blossoms  bright  and  sweet 


LYDIA  JANE  PEIRSON. 


65 


Threw  diamonds  from  their  diadems 
Upon  her  fairy  feet. 

She  loved  to  watch  the  day-star  float 

Upon  the  aerial  sea, 
Till  morning  sunk  his  pearly  boat 

In  floods  of  radiancy. 
To  see  the  angel  of  the  storm 

Upon  his  wind-winged  car, 
With  dark  clouds  wrapped  around  his  form. 

Come  shouting  from  afar. 

And  pouring  treasures  rich  and  free, 

The  pure  refreshing  rain, 
Till  every  weed  and  forest  tree 

Could  boast  its  diamond  chain. 
Then  rising,  with  the  hymn  of  praise. 

That  swelled  from  hill  and  dale, 
Display  the  rainbow,  sign  of  peace, 

Upon  its  misty  veil. 

She  loved  the  waves'  deep  utterings — 

And  gazed  with  frenzied  eye. 
When  night  shook  lightning  from  his  wings 

And  winds  went  sobbing  by. 
Full  oft  I  chid  the  wayward  child, 

Her  wanderings  to  restrain ; 
And  sought  her  airy  limbs  to  bind 

With  prudence'  worldly  chain. 


66 


LYDIA  JANE  PEIRSON. 


I  bade  her  stay  within  my  cot, 

And  ply  the  housewife's  art;  — 
She  heard  me,  but  she  heeded  not. 

Oh,  who  can  bind  the  heart  ? 
I  told  her  she  had  none  to  guide 

Her  inexperienced  feet 
To  where,  through  Tempe's  valley,  glide 

Castalia's  waters  sweet; 

No  son  of  fame,  to  take  her  hand 

And  lead  her  blushing  forth, 
Proclaiming  to  the  laurelled  band 

A  youthful  sister's  worth; 
That  there  were  none  to  help  her  climb 

The  steep  and  toilsome  way. 
To  where,  above  the  mists  of  time. 

Shines  Genius'  living  ray; 

Where,  wreathed  with  never-fading  flowers, 

The  Harp  immortal  lies. 
Filling  the  souls  that  reach  those  bowers 

With  heavenly  melodies. 
I  warned  her  of  the  cruel  foes 

That  throng  that  rugged  path. 
Where  many  a  thorn  of  misery  grows. 

And  tempests  wreak  their  wrath. 

I  told  her  of  the  serpents  dread. 
With  malice-pointed  fangs. 


LYDIA  JANE  PEIRSON. 


67 


Of  yellow-blossomed  weeds  that  shed 

Derision's  maddening  pangs. 
And  of  the  broken,  mouldering  lyres 

Thrown  carelessly  aside, 
Telling  the  winds,  with  shivering  wires. 

How  noble  spirits  died. 

I  said — her  sandals  were  not  meet 

Such  journey  to  essay, 
(There  should  be  gold  beneath  the  feet 

That  tempt  Fame's  toilsome  way,) 
But  while  I  spoke,  her  burning  eye 

Was  flashing  in  the  light 
That  shone  upon  that  mountain  high. 

Insufferably  bright. 

While  streaming  from  the  Eternal  Lyre, 

Like  distant  echoes  came 
A  strain  that  wrapped  her  soul  in  fire, 

And  thrilled  her  trembling  frame. 
She  sprang  away — that  wayward  child, 

The  harp !  the  harp !  she  cried ; 
And  still  she  climbs  and  warbles  wild 

Along  the  mountain  side. 


I 

(36  LYDIA  JANE  PEIRSON. 


TO  THE  WOOD-ROBIN. 

Bird  of  the  twilight  hour  ! 

My  soul  goes  forth  to  mingle  with  thy  hymn, 
Which  floats  like  slumber  round  each  closing  flower, 

And  weaves  sweet  visions  through  the  forest  dim. 

Where  day's  sweet  warblers  rest. 

Each  gently  rocking  on  the  waving  spray, 

Or  hovering  the  dear  fledgelings  in  the  nest 
Without  one  care-pang  for  the  coming  day. 

Oh,  holy  bird,  and  sweet 

Angel  of  tills  dark  forest,  whose  rich  notes 
Gush  like  a  fountain  in  the  still  retreat, 

O'er  which  a  world  of  mirrored  beauty  floats. 

My  spirit  drinks  the  stream. 

Till  human  cares  and  passions  fade  away ; 
And  all  my  soul  is  wrapped  in  one  sweet  dream, 

Of  blended  love,  and  peace,  and  melody. 

Sweet  bird !  that  wak'st  alone 

The  moonlight  echoes  of  the  flowery  dells, 
When  every  other  winged  lute  is  flown. 

And  insects  sleeping  all  in  nodding  bells. 

I  bow  my  aching  head, 

And  wait  the  unction  of  thy  voice  of  love  ; 


LYDIA  JANE  PEIRSON.  69 

1  feel  it  o'er  my  weary  spirit  shed, 

Like  dew  from  balmy  flowers  that  bloom  above. 

0 !  when  the  loves  of  earth 

Are  silent  birds,  at  close  of  life's  long  day ; 
May  some  pure  seraphim  of  heavenly  birth. 

Bear  on  its  holy  hymn  my  soul  away ! 


THE  WILDWOOD  HOME. 

Oh,  show  me  a  place  like  the  wildwood  home. 

Where  the  air  is  fragrant  and  free, 
And  the  first  pure  breathings  of  morning  come 

In  a  gush  of  melody. 
She  lifts  the  soft  fringe  from  her  dark  blue  eye, 

With  a  radiant  smile  of  love. 
And  the  diamonds  that  o'er  her  bosom  lie, 

Are  bright  as  the  gems  above. 

Where  noon  lies  down  in  the  breezy  shade 

Of  the  glorious  forest  bowers. 
And  the  beautiful  birds,  from  the  sunny  glades. 

Sit  nodding  amongst  the  flowers  ; 
While  the  holy  child  of  the  mountain  spring 

Steals  past  with  a  murmured  song. 
And  the  honey-bees  sleep  in  the  bells  that  swing 

In  garlanded  banks  along. 


70 


LYDIA  JANE  PEIRSON. 


Where  day  steals  away  with  a  young  bride's  blush. 

To  the  soft  green  couch  of  night, 
And  the  moon  throws  o'er  with  a  holy  hush 

Her  curtain  of  gossamer-light. 
And  the  seraph  that  sings  in  the  hemlock-dell — 

Oh,  sweetest  of  birds  is  she ! — 
Fills  the  dewy  breeze  with  a  trancing  swell 

Of  melody  rich  and  free. 

There  are  sumptuous  mansions,  with  marble  walls, 

Surmounted  by  glittering  towers, 
Where  fountains  play  in  the  perfumed  halls 

Amongst  exotic  flowers : 
They  are  suitable  homes  for  the  haughty  in  mind. 

Yet  a  wildwood  home  for  me ; 
Where  the  pure  bright  streams,  and  the  mountain  wind, 

And  the  bounding  heart,  are  free. 


FRANCES  SARGENT  OSGOOD. 


The  subject  of  this  notice  was  the  daughter  of  the  late  Joseph  Locke,  and 
was  a  native  of  Boston,  in  which  city  she  resided  until  her  marriage  with 
Samuel  S.  Osgood,  an  artist  of  distinction.  A  noted  writer  says  of  her  in 
a  critique,  "  Her  personal  not  less  than  her  literary  character  and  exist- 
ence, are  one  perpetual  poem.  Not  to  write  poetry — not  to  think  it — act 
it — dream  it,  and  be  it — is  entirely  out  of  her  power."  Her  first  volume, 
"  The  Wreath  of  Wild  Flowers,"  was  published  in  England  during  a  visit 
to  that  country,  immediately  after  her  marriage.  In  the  words  of  the  critic 
already  quoted,  "There  was  tliat  about  the  volume — that  inexpressible 
grace  of  thought  and  manner,  which  never  fails  to  find  a  ready  echo  in 
the  heart."  The  next  collection  of  her  poems  was  published  in  New  York 
about  three  years  since,  and  was  most  favourably  received  by  the  public 
and  the  press  throughout  the  country.  A  charming  naivete,  an  exquisite 
simplicity,  an  inimitable  grace,  with  at  times  a  thrilling  and  impassioned 
earnestness,  are  Mrs.  Osgood's  chief  characteristics  as  a  writer.  We  close 
our  remarks  with  a  just  and  beautiful  tribute  to  our  fair  authoress,  from 
the  pen  of  a  sister  poetess  :  "  With  her  beautiful  Italian  soul,  with  her 
impulse,  and  wild  imagery,  and  exuberant  fancy,  and  glowing  passionate- 
ness,  and  with  the  wonderful  facility  with  which,  like  an  almond  tree 
casting  off  its  blossoms,  she  flings  around  her  heart-tinted  and  love-per- 
fumed lays,  she  has,  I  must  believe,  more  of  the  improvisatrice  than  has 
yet  been  revealed  by  any  of  our  gifted  countrywomen." 

Mrs.  Osgood  died  in  May,  1850. 

THE  DAISY'S  MISTAKE. 

A  Sunbeam  and  Zephyr  were  playing  about, 

One  spring,  ere  a  blossom  had  peeped  from  the  stem, 

When  they  heard,  under  ground,  a  faint,  fairy-like  shout : 
'Twas  the  voice  of  a  Field-Daisy  calling  to  them. 

10 


72 


FRANCES  SARGENT  OSGOOD. 


"  Oh !  tell  me,  my  friend,  has  the  winter  gone  by  ? 

Is4t  time  to  come  up  ?  Is  the  Crocus  there  yet  ? 
I  know  you  are  sporting  above,  and  I  sigh 

To  be  with  you  and  kiss  you ; — 't  is  long  since  we  met ! 

"I've  been  ready  this  great  while — all  dressed  for  the  show ; 

I 've  a  gem  on  my  bosom  that 's  pure  as  a  star ; 
And  the  frill  of  my  robe  is  as  white  as  the  snow ; 

And  I  mean  to  be  brighter  than  Crocuses  are." 

Now  the  Zephyr  and  Sunbeam  were  wild  with  delight ! 

It  seemed  a  whole  age  since  they 'd  played  with  a  flower ; 
So  they  told  a  great  fib  to  the  poor  little  sprite, 

That  was  languishing  down  in  her  underground  bower. 

"  Come  out !  little  darling !  as  quick  as  you  can  ! 

The  Crocus,  the  Cowslip,  and  Buttercup  too. 
Have  been  up  here  this  fortnight ;  we  're  having  grand  times , 

And  all  of  them  hourly  asking  for  you ! 

"  The  Cowslip  is  crowned  with  a  topaz  tiara ; 

The  Crocus  is  flaunting  in  golden  attire ; 
But  you,  little  pet,  are  a  thousand  times  fairer — 

To  see  you  but  once,  is  to  love  and  admire ! 

"  The  skies  smile  benignantly  all  the  day  long ; 

The  Bee  drinks  your  health  in  the  purest  of  dew ; 
The  Lark  has  been  waiting  to  sing  you  a  song. 

Which  he  practised  in  cloud-land  on  purpose  for  you ' 


FRANCES  SARGENT  OSGOOD. 


73 


"  Come,  come  !  you  are  either  too  bashful  or  lazy ! 

Lady  Spring  made  this  season  an  early  entree ; 
And  she  wondered  what  could  have  become  of  her  Daisy  ; 

We  '11  call  you  coquettish,  if  still  you  delay !" 

Then  a  still,  small  voice,  in  the  heart  of  the  flower. 
It  was  Instinct,  whispered  her,  "  Do  not  go  ! 

You  had  better  be  quiet,  and  wait  your  hour ; 
It  is  n't  too  late,  even  yet,  for  snow  !" 

But  the  little  field-blossom  was  foolish  and  vain. 
And  she  said  to  herself,  "  What  a  belle  I  shall  be  !" 

So  she  sprang  to  the  light,  as  she  brake  from  her  chain, 
And  gaily  she  cried,  "  I  am  free  !  I  am  free  !" 

A  shy  little  thing  is  the  Daisy,  you  know ; 

And  she  was  half  frightened  to  death,  when  she  found 
Not  a  blossom  had  even  begun  to  blow  ! 

How  she  wished  herself  back  again  under  the  ground  ! 

The  tear  in  her  timid  and  sorrowful  eye 

Might  well  put  the  Zephyr  and  Beam  to  the  blush ; 

But  the  saucy  light  laughed  and  said,  "  Pray  don't  cry  !" 
And  the  gay  Zephyr  sang  to  her,  "  Hush,  sweet,  hush !" 

They  kissed  her,  and  petted  her  fondly  at  first ; 

But  a  storm  arose,  and  the  false  light  fled ; 
And  the  Zephyr  changed  into  angry  breeze. 

That  scolded  her  till  she  was  almost  dead ! 


74 


FRANCES  SARGENT  OSGOOD. 


The  gem  on  her  bosom  was  stained  and  dark — 
The  snow  of  her  robe  had  lost  its  light — 

And  tears  of  sorrow  had  dimmed  the  spark 
Of  beauty  and  youth,  that  made  her  bright ! 

And  so  she  lay  with  her  fair  head  low, 
And  mournfully  sighed  in  her  dying  hour, 

"  Ah !  had  I  courageously  answered  '  No !' 
I  had  now  been  safe  in  my  native  bower !" 


YOUR  HEART  IS  A  MUSIC-BOX,  DEAREST. 

Your  heart  is  a  music-box,  dearest ! 

With  exquisite  tunes  at  command. 
Of  melody  sweetest  and  clearest. 

If  tried  by  a  delicate  hand ; 
But  its  workmanship,  love,  is  so  fine, 

At  a  single  rude  touch  it  would  break ; 
Then  oh !  be  the  magic  key  mine, 

Its  fairy-like  whispers  to  wake ! 

And  there 's  one  little  tune  it  can  pla}'', 

That  I  fancy  all  others  above  — 
You  learned  it  of  Cupid  one  day — 

It  begins  with  and  ends  with  "  I  love  !" 
"I  love!" 
My  heart  echoes  to  it,  "  I  love !" 


FRANCES  SARGENT  OSGOOD. 


75 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  POETRY. 

Leave  me  not  yet !  Leave  me  not  cold  and  lonely, 

Thou  dear  ideal  of  my  pining  heart ! 
Thou  art  the  friend — the  beautiful — the  only, 

Whom  I  would  keep,  though  all  the  world  depart ! 
Thou,  that  dost  veil  the  frailest  flower  with  glory, 

Spirit  of  light,  of  loveliness,  and  truth ! 
Thou  that  didst  tell  me  a  sweet,  fairy  story, 

Of  the  dim  future,  in  my  wistful  youth ! 
Thou  who  canst  weave  a  halo  round  the  spirit. 

Through  which  nought  mean  or  evil  dare  intrude. 
Resume  not  yet  the  gift,  which  I  inherit 

From  Heaven  and  thee,  that  dearest,  holiest  good ! 
Leave  me  not  now  !  Leave  me  not  cold  and  lonely, 

Thou  starry  prophet  of  my  pining  heart ! 
Thou  art  the  friend — the  tenderest — the  only, 

With  whom  of  all,  'twould  be  despair  to  part. 

Thou  that  cam'st  to  me  in  my  dreaming  childhood. 

Shaping  the  changeful  clouds  to  pageants  rare, 
Peopling  the  smiling  vale  and  shaded  wildwood 

With  airy  beings,  faint  yet  strangely  fair  ; 
Telling  me  all  the  sea-born  breeze  was  saying. 

While  it  went  whispering  through  the  willing  leaves, 
Bidding  me  listen  to  the  light  rain  playing 

Its  pleasant  tune  about  the  household  eaves ; 
Tuning  the  low,  sweet  ripple  of  the  river. 

Till  its  melodious  murmur  seemed  a  song. 


76 


FRANCES  SARGENT  OSGOOD. 


A  tender  and  sad  chant,  repeated  ever, 

A  sweet  impassioned  plaint  of  love  and  wrong ! 

Leave  me  not  yet !  Leave  me  not  cold  and  lonely, 
Thou  star  of  promise  o'er  my  clouded  path ! 

Leave  not  the  life  that  borrows  from  thee  only 
All  of  delight  and  beauty  that  it  hath ! 

Thou  that  when  others  knew  not  how  to  love  me, 

Nor  cared  to  fathom  half  my  yearning  soul, 
Didst  wreathe  thy  flowers  of  light  around,  above  me. 

To  woo  and  win  me  from  my  grief's  control — 
By  all  my  dreams,  the  passionate  and  holy. 

When  thou  hast  sung  love's  lullaby  to  me — 
By  all  the  childlike  worship,  fond  and  lowly. 

Which  I  have  lavished  upon  thine  and  thee, — 
By  all  the  lays  my  simple  lute  was  learning 

To  echo  from  thy  voice, — stay  with  me  still ! 
Once  flown — alas !  for  thee  there 's  no  returning ! 

The  charm  will  die  o'er  valley,  wood,  and  hill. 
Tell  me  not  Time,  whose  wing  my  brow  has  shaded. 

Has  withered  Spring's  sweet  bloom  within  my  heart : 
Ah,  no !  the  rose  of  Love  is  yet  unfaded. 

Though  Hope  and  Joy,  its  sister  flowers,  depart. 

Well  do  I  know  that  I  have  wronged  thine  altar. 
With  the  light  oflferings  of  an  idler's  mind. 

And  thus  with  shame,  my  pleading  prayer  I  falter. 
Leave  me  not,  Spirit !  deaf,  and  dumb,  and  blind ! 

Deaf  to  the  mystic  harmony  of  nature. 

Blind  to  the  beauty  of  her  stars  and  flowers. 


FRANCES  SARGENT  OSGOOD. 


n 


Leave  me  not,  heavenly  yet  human  teacher, 

Lonely  and  lost  in  this  cold  world  of  ours ! 
Heaven  knows  I  need  thy  music  and  thy  beauty 

Still  to  beguile  me  on  my  weary  way. 
To  lighten  to  my  soul  the  weight  of  duty. 

And  bless  with  radiant  dreams  the  darkened  day  : 
To  charm  my  wild  heart  in  the  worldly  revel. 

Lest  I  too  join  the  aimless,  false,  and  vain ; 
Let  me  not  lower  to  the  soulless  level 

Of  those  whom  now  I  pity  and  disdain ! 
Leave  me  not  yet ! — leave  me  not  cold  and  pining, 

Thou  bird  of  paradise,  whose  plumes  of  light, 
Where'er  they  rested,  left  a  glory  shining ; 

Fly  not  to  heaven,  or  let  me  share  thy  flight ! 


GARDEN  GOSSIP. 

ACCOUNTING  FOR  THE  COOLNESS  BETWEEN  THE  LILY  AND  THE  VIOLET. 

"  I  WILL  tell  you  a  secret !"  the  Honey-Bee  said 
To  a  Violet  drooping  her  dew-laden  head ; 
"  The  Lily 's  in  love  !  for  she  listened  last  night, 
While  her  sisters  all  slept  in  the  holy  moonlight. 
To  a  Zephyr  that  just  had  been  rocking  the  Rose, 
Where  hidden,  I  hearkened  in  seeming  repose. 

"  I  would  not  betray  her  to  any  but  you  ; 
But  the  secret  is  safe  with  a  spirit  so  true, 


FRANCES  SARGENT  OSGOOD. 

It  will  rest  in  your  bosom  in  silence  profound." 
The  Violet  bent  her  blue  eye  to  the  ground ; 
A  tear  and  a  smile  in  her  loving  look  lay, 
While  the  light-winged  gossip  went  whirring  away. 

"I  will  tell  you  a  secret !"  the  Honey-Bee  said, 
And  the  young  Lily  lifted  her  beautiful  head ; 
"  The  Violet  thinks,  with  her  timid  blue  eye, 
To  pass  for  a  blossom  enchantingly  shy ; 
But  for  all  her  sweet  manners,  so  modest  and  pure, 
She  gossips  with  every  gay  bird  that  sings  to  her. 

"  Now  let  me  advise  you,  sweet  flower !  as  a  friend. 
Oh  !  ne'er  to  such  beings  your  confidence  lend  ; 
It  grieves  me  to  see  one,  all  guileless  like  you. 
Thus  wronging  a  spirit  so  trustful  and  true  : 
But  not  for  the  world,  love,  my  secret  betray !" 
And  the  little  light  gossip  went  buzzing  away. 

A  blush  in  the  Lily's  cheek  trembled  and  fled ; 

"  I 'm  sorry  he  told  me,"  she  tenderly  said ; 

"  If  I  may  n't  trust  the  Violet,  pure  as  she  seems, 

I  must  fold  in  my  own  heart  my  beautiful  dreams  !" 

Was  the  mischief  well  managed  ?  Fair  lady,  is 't  true 

Did  the  light  garden  gossip  take  lessons  of  you  ? 


FRANCES  SARGENT  OSGOOD. 


79 


CALL  ME  PET  NAMES. 

Call  me  pet  names,  dearest !  call  me  a  bird, 

That  flies  to  thy  breast  at  one  cherishing  word — 

That  folds  its  wild  wings  there,  ne'er  dreaming  of  flight. 

That  tenderly  sings  there  in  loving  delight ! 

Oh!  my  sad  heart  keeps  pining  for  one  fond  word, — 

Call  me  pet  names,  dearest !  call  me  thy  bird ! 

Call  me  sweet  names,  darling !  call  me  a  flower, 

That  lives  in  the  light  of  thy  smile  each  hour, 

That  droops  when  its  heaven — thy  heart — grows  cold, 

That  shrinks  from  the  wicked,  the  false,  and  bold. 

That  blooms  for  thee  only,  through  sunlight  and  shower ; 

Call  me  pet  names,  darling !  call  me  thy  flower ! 

Call  me  fond  names,  dearest !  call  me  a  star. 

Whose  smile's  beaming  welcome  thou  feel'st  from  afar. 

Whose  light  is  the  clearest,  the  truest  to  thee. 

When  the  "  night-time  of  sorrow"  steals  over  life's  sea ' 

Oh !  trust  thy  rich  bark  where  its  warm  rays  are, 

Call  me  pet  names,  darling !  call  me  thy  star ! 

Call  me  pet  names,  darling !  call  me  thine  own ! 

Speak  to  me  always  in  love's  low  tone ! 

Let  not  thy  look  nor  thy  voice  grow  cold : 

Let  my  fond  worship  thy  being  enfold ; 

Love  me  for  ever,  and  love  me  alone ! 

Call  me  pet  names,  darling !  call  me  thine  own ! 
11 


80  FRANCES  SARGENT  OSGOOD. 


A  SERMON. 

Thou  discord  in  this  choral  harmony ! 
That  dost  profane  the  loveliest  light  and  air 
God  ever  gave :  be  still,  and  look,  and  listen ! 
Canst  see  yon  fair  cloud  floating  in  the  sun, 
And  blush  not,  v^^atching  its  serener  life  ? 
Canst  hear  the  fragrant  grass  grow  up  toward  God, 
With  low,  perpetual  chant  of  praise  and  prayer, 
Nor  grieve  that  your  soul  grows  the  other  way  ? 
Forego  that  tone,  made  harsh  by  a  hard  heart. 
And  hearken,  if  you  're  not  afraid  to  hearken, 
Yon  Robin's  careless  carol,  glad  and  sweet. 
Mocking  the  sunshine  with  his  merry  trill ! 
Suppose  you  try  to  chord  your  voice  with  his ; 
But  first,  learn  love  and  wisdom  of  him,  lady ! 

How  dare  you  bring  your  inharmonious  heart 
To  such  a  scene  ?    How  dare  you  let  your  voice 
Talk  out  of  tune  so  with  the  voice  of  God 
In  earth  and  sky ;  the  balmy  air  about  you 
Is  Heaven's  great  gift,  vouchsafed  to  you  to  make 
Vocal  with  all  melodious  truths,  and  you 
Fret  it  with  false  words,  from  a  falser  soul. 
And  poison  it  with  the  breath  of  calumny ! 
Learn  reverence,  bold  one,  for  true  Nature's  heart. 
If  not  for  that  your  sister  woman  bears ! 
For  Nature's  heart,  pleading  in  every  wave, 
That  wastes  its  wistful  music  at  your  feet. 


FRANCES  SARGENT  OSGOOD. 


81 


Take  back  your  cold,  inane,  and  carping  mind 
Into  the  world  you  came  from  and  belong  to — 
The  world  of  common  cares  and  sordid  aims. 
These  happy  haunts  can  spare  you,  little  one ! 
The  dew-fed  grass  will  grow  as  well  without  you, 
The  woodland  choirs  will  scarce  require  your  voice, 
The  starlit  wave  without  your  smile  will  glisten, 
The  proud  patrician  trees  will  miss  you  not. 

Go,  waste  God's  glorious  boon  of  summer  hours 

Among  your  mates,  as  shallow,  in  small  talk 

Of  dress,  or  weather,  or  the  last  elopement ! 

Go,  mar  the  canvass  with  distorted  face 

Of  dog  or  cat,  or  worse,  profanely  mock. 

With  gaudy  beads,  the  pure  light-painted  flower ! 

Go,  trim  your  cap,  embroider  your  visite, 

Crocher  a  purse,  do  any  petty  thing ! 

But  in  the  name  of  truth,  religion,  beauty. 

Let  Nature's  marvellous  mystery  alone. 

Nor  ask  such  airs,  such  skies,  to  waste  the  wealth 

They  keep  for  nobler  beings,  upon  you  ! 

Or  stay,  and  learn  of  every  bird  and  bloom 

That  sends  its  heart  to  Heaven  in  song  or  sigh, 

The  lesson  that  you  need,  the  law  of  love  ! 


82 


FRANCES  SARGENT  OSGOOD. 


TO  A  DEAR  LITTLE  TRUANT. 

When  are  you  coming  ?    The  flowers  have  come ! 

Bees  in  the  balmy  air  happily  hum  : 

Tenderly,  timidly,  down  in  the  dell 

Sighs  the  sweet  Violet,  droops  the  Harebell : 

Soft  in  the  wavy  grass  glistens  the  dew — 

Spring  keeps  her  promises — why  do  not  you? 

Up  in  the  air,  love,  the  clouds  are  at  play ; 
You  are  more  graceful  and  lovely  than  they  ! 
Birds  in  the  woods  carol  all  the  day  long ; 
When  are  you  coming  to  join  in  the  song  ? 
Fairer  than  flowers  and  purer  than  dew ! 
Other  sweet  things  are  here — why  are  not  you? 

When  are  you  coming  ?    We 've  welcomed  the  Rose  ' 

Every  light  zephyr,  as  gaily  it  goes. 

Whispers  of  other  flowers  met  on  its  way ; 

Why  has  it  nothing  of  you,  love,  to  say  ? 

Why  does  it  tell  us  of  music  and  dew  ? 

Rose  of  the  South !  we  are  waiting  for  you  ! 

Do,  darling,  come  to  us! — 'Mid  the  dark  trees, 

Like  a  lute  murmurs  the  musical  breeze ; 

Sometimes  the  Brook,  as  it  trips  by  the  flowers, 

Hushes  its  warble  to  listen  for  yours ! 

Pure  as  the  Violet,  lovely  and  true ! 

Spring  should  have  waited  till  she  could  bring  you  ! 


FRANCES  SARGENT  OSGOOD. 


83 


EURYDICE. 

With  heart  that  thrilled  to  every  earnest  line, 
I  had  been  reading  o'er  that  antique  story, 

Wherein  the  youth  half  human,  half  divine. 
Of  all  love-lore  the  Eidolon  and  glory. 

Child  of  the  Sun,  with  music's  pleading  spell. 
In  Pluto's  palace  swept,  for  love,  his  golden  shell ! 

And  in  the  wild,  sweet  legend,  dimly  traced. 
My  own  heart's  history  unfolded  seemed  :  — 

Ah !  lost  one  !  by  thy  lover-minstrel  graced 
With  homage  pure  as  ever  woman  dreamed, 

Too  fondly  worshipped,  since  such  fate  befell. 
Was  it  not  sweet  to  die — because  beloved  too  well  ? 

The  scene  is  round  me ! — Throned  amid  the  gloom, 
As  a  flower  smiles  on  Etna's  fatal  breast. 

Young  Proserpine  beside  her  lord  doth  bloom ; 
And  near — of  Orpheus'  soul,  oh!  idol  blest! — 

While  low  for  thee  he  tunes  his  lyre  of  light, 
I  see  thy  meek,  fair  form  dawn  through  that  lurid  night ! 

I  see  the  glorious  boy — his  dark  locks  wreathing 

Wildly  the  wan  and  spiritual  brow. 
His  sweet,  curved  lip  the  soul  of  music  breathing ; 

His  blue  Greek  eyes,  that  speak  Love's  loyal  vow  ; 
1  see  him  bend  on  thee  that  eloquent  glance, 
The  while  those  wondrous  notes  the  realm  of  terror  trance ' 


84 


FRANCES  SARGENT  OSGOOD. 


I  see  his  face,  with  more  than  mortal  beauty 
Kindling,  as  armed  with  that  sweet  lyre  alone. 

Pledged  to  a  holy  and  heroic  duty, 

He  stands  serene  before  the  awful  throne. 

And  looks  on  Hades'  horrors  with  clear  eye, 
Since  thou,  his  own  adored  Eurydice,  art  nigh ! 

Now  soft  and  low  a  prelude  sweet  uprings, 
As  if  a  prisoned  angel — pleading  there 
For  life  and  love — were  fettered  'neath  the  strings, 

And  poured  his  passionate  soul  upon  the  air ! 
Anon,  it  clangs  with  wild,  exultant  swell, 
Till  the  full  paean  peals  triumphantly  through  Hell ! 

And  thou — thy  pale  hands  meekly  locked  before  thee— 

Thy  sad  eyes  drinking  life  from  his  dear  gaze — 
Thy  lips  apart — thy  hair  a  halo  o'er  thee. 

Trailing  around  thy  throat  its  golden  maze — 
Thus — with  all  words  in  passionate  silence  dying — 
Within  thy  soul  I  hear  Love's  eager  voice  replying — 

"  Play  on,  mine  Orpheus !    Lo  !  while  these  are  gazing. 

Charmed  into  statues  by  thy  God-taught  strain, 
I — I  alone,  to  thy  dear  face  upraising 

My  tearful  glance,  the  life  of  life  regain ! 
For  every  tone  that  steals  into  my  heart 
Doth  to  its  worn,  weak  pulse  a  mighty  power  impart. 

"  Play  on,  mine  Orpheus !  while  thy  music  floats 

Through  the  dread  realm,  divine  with  truth  and  grace, 


FRANCES  SARGENT  OSGOOD. 


85 


See,  dear  one !  how  the  chain  of  linked  notes 

Has  fettered  every  spirit  in  its  place ! 
Even  Death,  beside  me,  still  and  helpless  lies ; 
And  strives  in  vain  to  chill  my  frame  with  his  cold  eyes. 

"Still,  mine  own  Orpheus,  sweep  the  golden  lyre ! 

Ah !  dost  thou  mark  how  gentle  Proserpine, 
With  clasped  hands,  and  eyes  whose  azure  fire 

Gleams  through  quick  tears,  thrilled  by  thy  lay,  doth  lean 
Her  graceful  head  upon  her  stern  lord's  breast, 
Like  an  o'erwearied  child,  whom  music  lulls  to  rest  ? 

"  Play,  my  proud  minstrel !  strike  the  chords  again ! 

Lo !  Victory  crowns  at  last  thy  heavenly  skill ! 
For  Pluto  turns  relenting  to  the  strain — 

He  waves  his  hand — he  speaks  his  awful  will ! 
My  glorious  Greek !  lead  on ;  but  ah !  still  lend 
Thy  soul  to  thy  sweet  lyre,  lest  yet  thou  lose  thy  friend ! 

"  Think  not  of  me !    Think  rather  of  the  time. 

When  moved  by  thy  resistless  melody. 
To  the  strange  magic  of  a  song  sublime, 

Thy  argo  grandly  glided  to  the  sea ! 
And  in  the  majesty  Minerva  gave. 
The  graceful  galley  swept,  with  joy,  the  sounding  wave ! 

"  Or  see,  in  Fancy's  dream,  thy  Thracian  trees. 
Their  proud  heads  bent  submissive  to  the  sound. 

Swayed  by  a  tuneful  and  enchanted  breeze, 

March  to  slow  music  o'er  the  astonished  ground — 


86 


FRANCES  SARGENT  OSGOOD. 


Grove  after  grove  descending  from  the  hills, 
While  round  thee  weave  their  dance  the  glad,  harmonious 
rills. 

"  Think  not  of  me !    Ha !  by  thy  mighty  sire, 
My  lord,  my  king !  recall  the  dread  behest ! 
Turn  not — ah !  turn  not  back  those  eyes  of  fire ! 

Oh !  lost,  for  ever  lost !  undone !  unblest ! 
I  faint,  I  die ! — the  serpent's  fang  once  more 
Is  here ! — nay,  grieve  not  thus !  Life  but  not  Love  is  o'er !" 


EMMA   C.  EMBURY. 


Mrs.  Embury  is  a  native  of  the  city  of  New  York,  and  daughter  of 
Dr.  Manly,  who  has  been  for  many  years  a  distinguished  physician.  At 
an  early  age  she  was  married  to  Mr.  Embury,  a  gentleman  of  refinement 
and  fortune,  with  whom  she  resides  in  Brooklyn.  Her  first  contributions 
to  the  periodicals,  under  the  signature  of  "  Ianthe,"  at  once  attracted  the 
attention  of  the  public.  A  subsequent  collection  of  her  pieces  into  a 
volume,  entitled  "  Guido,  and  other  Poems,"  gave  her  a  place  in  the  first 
rank  of  American  female  poets.  In  her  later  productions  she  has  ful- 
filled the  predictions  of  her  most  sanguine  friends.  From  the  luxuriance 
of  her  imagination  and  her  fine  flow  of  language,  we  are  led  to  believe 
that  Mrs.  Embury  will  yet  favour  the  world  with  something  from  the  deep 
mines  of  her  poetic  spirit,  which  shall  take  a  stand  among  the  highest 
works  in  our  literature. 

THE  RUINED  MILL. 

A  LONE  and  roofless  thing,  it  stands 

In  sunshine  and  in  shower, 
Stretching  abroad  its  palsied  hands, — 

A  wreck  of  giant  power; 
Each  mouldering  beam  and  crumbling  stone 
With  velvet  moss  is  now  o'ergrown, 

While  many  a  wind-sown  flower 
Is  peeping  through  the  broken  floor, 
Seeking  the  place  it  held  of  yore. 

12 


88  EMMA  C.  EMBURY. 

The  bright-eyed  toad  looks  fearless  out, 

And  newts  to  covert  steal; 
The  spider  weaves  his  web  about 

The  cogs  of  the  massive  wheel; 
And  where  the  miller  once  blithely  stood, 
The  adder  rears  her  hissing  brood, 

Nor  fears  his  iron  heel; 
Man's  rule  within  the  spot  is  o'er, 
And  Nature  wins  her  own  once  more. 

O'er  the  broken  dam  the  brook  leaps  free. 

And  speeds  on  its  course  along. 
Wooing  the  wild-flowers  daintily, 

With  its  smiles  and  its  pleasant  song; 
No  longer  chained  to  the  busy  mill. 
It  wanders  on  at  its  own  sweet  will. 

The  heavy  rocks  among. 
Then  creeps  away  round  the  old  tree's  foot, 
To  brighten  the  moss  on  its  gnarled  root. 

I  sate  me  down  on  a  gray  old  stone. 

And  watched  the  lapsing  stream. 
Till  outward  things  before  me  shone 

Like  pictures  in  a  dream ; 
Amid  the  mists  of  revery 
I  rather  seemed  to  feel  than  see 

The  river's  sunny  gleam; 
Once  more  the  angel  of  my  youth 
Touched  all  things  with  a  sweeter  truth. 


EMMA  C.  EMBURY. 


89 


That  bright  ideal !  oh,  how  well 

My  spirit  knew  its  power! 
For  early  had  I  learned  its  spell, 

In  childhood's  joyous  hour; 
It  gave  new  glory  to  the  skies, 
New  music  to  earth's  melodies, 
New  charms  to  every  flower, 
And  even  now  the  gentle  sprite 
Can  win  my  soul  to  deep  delight. 

So  here,  in  this  secluded  spot, 

Beside  the  ruined  mill. 
Came  back  the  fancies  long  forgot, 

Which  fain  would  haunt  me  still ; 
That  stream  an  emblem  seemed  to  be 
Of  mine  own  gushing  poesy. 

Wasted  with  idle  will. 
Without  concentrate  power  to  stay 
A  leaflet  on  its  loitering  way. 


A  PORTRAIT. 

"  Heavenly  blessings 
Follow  such  creatures." 

A  GENTLE  maiden,  whose  large  loving  eyes 

Enshrine  a  tender,  melancholy  light, 
Like  the  soft  radiance  of  the  starry  skies. 

Or  Autumn  sunshine,  mellowed  when  most  bright ; 


90  EMMA  C.  EMBURY. 

She  is  not  sad,  yet  in  her  look  appears 
Something  that  makes  the  gazer  think  of  tears. 

She  is  not  beautiful,  her  features  bear 
A  loveliness  by  angel  hands  impressed, 

Such  as  the  pure  in  heart  alone  may  wear, 
The  outward  symbol  of  a  soul  at  rest ; 

And  this  beseems  her  well,  for  Love  and  Truth 

Companion  ever  with  her  guileless  youth. 

She  hath  a  delicate  foot,  a  dainty  hand. 
And  every  limb  displays  unconscious  grace, 

Like  one,  who,  born  a  lady  in  the  land, 

Taketh  no  thought  how  best  to  fill  her  place. 

But  moveth  ever  at  her  own  sweet  will, 

While  gentleness  and  pride  attend  her  still. 

Nor  hath  she  lost,  by  any  sad  mischance, 

The  happy  thoughts  that  to  her  years  belong — 

Her  step  is  ever  fleetest  in  the  dance. 
Her  voice  is  ever  gayest  in  the  song ; 

The  silent  air  by  her  rich  notes  is  stirred. 

As  by  the  music  of  a  forest  bird. 

There  dwelleth  in  the  sinlessness  of  youth 
A  sweet  rebuke  that  Vice  may  not  endure ; 

And  thus  she  makes  an  atmosphere  of  truth, 
For  all  things  in  her  presence  grow  more  pure ; 

She  walks  in  light — her  guardian  angel  flings 

A  halo  round  her  from  his  radiant  wings. 


EMMA  C.  EMBURY. 


91 


ILLUSIONS. 

"  Shadows  we  are,  and  shadows  we  pursue." 

Number  the  riches  by  thy  memory  hoarded, 

Relics  of  joys  thy  by-past  years  have  known, — 

How  many  real  things  are  there  recorded  ? 

How  much  true  light  was  o'er  thy  pathway  thrown  ? 

'T  was  Fancy's  hand  bestowed  the  fairy  treasures 
That  made  thee  rich  in  boyhood's  golden  time ; 

Imagination  deepened  all  youth's  pleasures ; 
Illusion  brightened  all  thy  manhood's  prime. 

Seen  through  the  wave  of  Time  above  them  sweeping, 
Hope's  broken  fanes  in  softened  splendour  gleam ; 

The  retrospective  eye  forgets  its  weeping. 
The  past  wears  all  the  glory  of  a  dream. 

How  can  we  say  this  joy,  or  that  was  real. 

When  all  have  passed  like  visions  of  the  night  ? 

How  can  we  know  the  true  from  the  ideal  ? 

Which  glowed  with  inward,  which  with  outward  light  ? 

It  needs  not  we  should  ask — the  grave's  dark  portal 
Soon  shuts  this  world  of  shadows  from  our  view ; 

Then  shall  we  grasp  realities  immortal. 
If  to  the  truth  within  us  we  are  true. 


92 


EMMA  C.  EMBURY. 


THE  yEOLIAN  HARP. 

Harp  of  the  Winds !  how  vainly  art  thou  swelling 

Thy  diapason  on  the  heedless  blast ; 
How  idly,  too,  thy  gentler  chords  are  telling 

A  tale  of  sorrow  as  the  breeze  sweeps  past : 
Why  dost  thou  waste  on  loneliness  the  strain 
Which  were  not  heard  by  human  ears  in  vain  ? 

And  the  Harp  answered  :  — "  Though  the  winds  are  bearing 
My  soul  of  sweetness  on  their  viewless  wings, 

Yet  one  faint  tone  may  reach  some  soul  despairing, 
And  rouse  its  energies  to  happier  things ; 

Oh  !  not  in  vain  my  song,  if  it  but  gives 

One  moment's  joy  to  any  thing  that  lives." 

Oh,  heart  of  mine !  canst  thou  not  here,  discerning 

An  emblem  of  thyself,  some  solace  find  ? 
Though  earth  may  never  quench  thy  life-long  yearning, 

Yet  give  thyself,  like  music,  to  the  wind : 
Thy  wandering  thought  may  teach  thy  Love  and  Trust, 
And  waken  sympathy  when  thou  art  dust. 


EMMA  C.  EMBURY. 


93 


SONG. 

I  REMEMBER  the  time  when  thine  eye's  saddened  light 
Was  as  gladdening  to  all  things  as  sunshine  in  Spring, 

When  thy  smile  made  an  atmosphere  round  thee  as  bright 
As  the  sudden  unfolding  of  some  cherub's  wing : 

Oh !  beautiful  wert  thou,  with  youth  on  thy  brow, 

But,  trust  me,  beloved,  thou  art  lovelier  now. 

Thine  eye's  starry  lustre  is  softened  by  tears, 
And  the  bloom  of  thy  beauty  has  faded  away, 

Yet  ne'er  in  thy  gladdest  and  happiest  years 
Did  the  high  soul  within  shed  so  holy  a  ray : 

Oh !  beautiful  wert  thou,  with  youth  on  thy  brow, 

But,  trust  me,  beloved,  thou  art  lovelier  now. 

Life's  roses  have  vanished,  life's  freshness  has  fled. 
Thy  future  no  longer  Hope's  pencil  may  paint ; 

But  the  halo  that  sorrow  has  cast  round  thy  head, 
Has  made  of  our  Hebe  an  exquisite  saint : 

Oh !  beautiful  wert  thou,  with  youth  on  thy  brow. 

But,  trust  me,  beloved,  thou  art  lovelier  now. 


94 


EMMA  C.  EMBURY. 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  THE  DUKE  OF  REICHSTADT. 

Heir  of  that  name 
Which  shook  with  sudden  terror  the  far  earth — 
Child  of  strange  destinies  e'en  from  thy  birth, 

When  kings  and  princes  round  thy  cradle  came, 
And  gave  their  crowns,  as  playthings,  to  thine  hand, 
Thine  heritage  the  spoils  of  many  a  land ! 

How  were  the  schemes 
Of  human  foresight  baffled  in  thy  fate, 
Thou  victim  of  a  parent's  lofty  state  ! 

What  glorious  visions  filled  thy  father's  dreams. 
When  first  he  gazed  upon  thy  infant  face, 
And  deemed  himself  the  Rodolph  of  his  race ; 

Scarce  had  thine  eyes 
Beheld  the  light  of  day,  when  thou  wert  bound 
With  power's  vain  symbols,  and  thy  young  brow  crowned 

With  Rome's  imperial  diadem :  — the  prize 
From  priestly  princes  by  thy  proud  sire  won, 
To  deck  the  pillow  of  his  cradled  son. 

Yet  where  is  now 
The  sword  that  flashed  as  with  a  meteor  light 
And  led  on  half  the  world  to  stirring  fight ; 

Bidding  whole  seas  of  blood  and  carnage  flow ; 
Alas !  when  foiled  on  his  last  battle-plain. 
Its  shattered  fragments  forged  thy  father's  chain. 


EMMA  C.  EMBURY. 


95 


Far  worse  thy  fate 
Than  that  which  doomed  him  to  the  barren  rock ; 
Through  half  the  universe  was  felt  the  shock, 

When  down  he  toppled  from  his  high  estate ; 
And  the  proud  thought  of  still  acknowledged  power 
Could  cheer  him  e'en  in  that  disastrous  hour. 

But  thou,  poor  boy ! 
Hadst  no  such  dreams  to  cheat  thy  lagging  hours — 
Thy  chains  still  galled,  though  wreathed  with  fairest  flowers ; 

Thou  hadst  no  images  of  by-gone  joy, 
No  visions  of  anticipated  fame. 
To  bear  thee  through  a  life  of  sloth  and  shame. 

And  where  was  she, 
Whose  proudest  title  was  Napoleon's  wife  ? 
She  who  first  gave,  and  should  have  watched  thy  life. 

Trebling  a  mother's  tenderness  for  thee, 
Despoiled  heir  of  empire  ?  On  her  breast 
Did  thy  young  head  repose  in  its  unrest  ? 

No !  round  her  heart 
Children  of  humbler,  happier  lineage  twined ; 
Thou  couldst  but  bring  dark  memories  to  mind 
Of  pageants  where  she  bore  a  heartless  part : 
She  who  shared  not  her  monarch-husband's  doom 
Cared  little  for  her  first-born's  living  tomb. 

Thou  art  at  rest ! 
Child  of  Ambition's  martyr! — life  had  been 

13 


96  EMMA  G.  EMBURY. 

To  thee  no  blessing,  but  a  dreary  scene 

Of  doubt,  and  dread,  and  suffering  at  the  best : 
For  thou  wert  one,  whose  path,  in  these  dark  times. 
Would  lead  to  sorrows — it  may  be  to  crimes. 

Thou  art  at  rest ! 
The  idle  sword  has  worn  its  sheath  away, — 
The  spirit  has  consumed  its  bonds  of  clay, — 

And  they,  who  with  vain  tyranny  compressed 
Thy  soul's  high  yearnings,  now  forget  their  fear. 
And  fling  ambition's  purple  o'er  thy  bier ! 


SONNET, 

ON  RECEIVING  A  POT  OF  VIOLETS  IN  MIDWINTER. 

The  cloud-flecked  sunshine  of  an  April  day. 

The  changeful  beauty  of  its  lights  and  shades, 

Falling  athwart  the  newly-herbaged  glades. 
Or  marking  out  some  tiny  streamlet's  way  ; 
A  pleasant  fancy  of  each  pleasant  thing 

That  comes  when  storms  have  vanished  from  the  sky ; 
A  vision  of  the  fairy-footed  Spring 

Stooping  to  kiss  the  Violet's  half-shut  eye  ; 
These  are  the  dreams  that  paint  my  chamber  walls 

With  woodland  haunts  in  this  dark  wintry  hour. 
While  sweet  bird-voices  and  low  insect-calls 

Seem  to  make  musical  each  sylvan  bower ; 
Such  genial  influence  on  my  spirit  falls, 

Waked  by  the  faint  sweet  perfume  of  a  flower. 


EMMA  C.  EMBURY. 


97 


THE  WIDOW'S  WOOER. 

He  woos  me  with  those  honeyed  words 

That  women  love  to  hear, 
Those  gentle  flatteries  that  fall 

So  sweet  on  every  ear. 
He  tells  me  that  my  face  is  fair, 

Too  fair  for  grief  to  shade : 
My  cheek,  he  says,  was  never  meant 

In  sorrow's  gloom  to  fade. 

He  stands  beside  me,  when  I  sing 

The  songs  of  other  days. 
And  whispers,  in  love's  thrilling  tones, 

The  words  of  heartfelt  praise ; 
And  often  in  my  eyes  he  looks. 

Some  answering  love  to  see, — 
In  vain !  he  there  can  only  read 

The  faith  of  memory. 

He  little  knows  what  thoughts  awake 

With  every  gentle  word; 
How,  by  his  looks  and  tones,  the  founts 

Of  tenderness  are  stirred. 
The  visions  of  my  youth  return, 

Joys  far  too  bright  to  last; 
And  while  he  speaks  of  future  bliss, 

I  think  but  of  the  past. 


98 


EMMA  C.  EMBURY. 


Like  lamps  in  Eastern  sepulchres, 

Amid  my  heart's  deep  gloom, 
Affection  sheds  its  holiest  light 

Upon  my  husband's  tomb. 
And,  as  those  lamps,  if  brought  once  more 

To  upper  air,  grow  dim. 
So  my  soul's  love  is  cold  and  dead. 

Unless  it  glow  for  him. 


CAROLINE  GILMAN. 


Mrs.  Oilman,  formerly  Miss  Howard,  was  born  in  Boston.  After  her 
marriage  with  the  Rev.  Samuel  Gilman  she  removed  to  Charleston,  South 
Carolina,  where  for  a  number  of  years  she  edited  a  literary  gazette  enti- 
tled "  The  Southern  Rose."  She  has  published  a  number  of  volumes  of 
prose  and  poetry,  of  which  "  The  Recollections  of  a  New  England  House- 
keeper," and  "  A  Southern  Matron,"  are  perhaps  most  widely  known. 
She  has  recently  published  "  Oracles  from  the  Poets,"  and  has  in  press  a 
volume  entitled  "  Verses  of  a  Lifetime." 

THE  RELEASED  CONVICT'S  CELL,  AT  THE  PHIL- 
ADELPHIA  PENITENTIARY. 

Within  the  prison's  massy  walls  I  stood, 
And  all  was  still.    Down  the  far  galleried  aisles 
I  gazed — upward  and  near;  no  eye  was  seen, 
No  footsteps  heard,  save  a  few  flitting  guards 
Urging  with  vacant  look  their  daily  round ; 
For  in  the  precincts  of  each  narrow  cell. 
Hands,  busiest  once  amid  licentious  crowds, 
Voices,  that  shouted  loudest  in  the  throng. 
Were  now  as  calm,  as  erst  the  winds  and  waves. 
When  Jesus  said,  "  Be  still 

I  was  led  on 

To  where  a  convict  ten  slow  years  had  dwelt 
A  prisoned  man.    Released  that  day,  he  sought 


100 


CAROLINE  GILMAN. 


The  world  again.    Wide  open  stood  his  door. 
Hard  by  the  cell  (where  for  brief  term  each  day- 
He  walked  alone  to  feel  the  blessed  breeze 
Play  on  his  cheek,  or  see  the  sunbeam  dawn 
Like  a  fond  mother  on  her  erring  child), 
There  was  a  little  spot  of  earth,  that  woke 
Within  my  breast  a  gush  of  sudden  tears. 
His  hand  had  tilled  it,  and  the  fresh  grass  grew 
Rewardingly,  and  springing  plants  were  there, 
One  knows  not  how,  lifting  their  gentle  heads 
In  kind  companionship  to  that  lone  man. 

Who  can  portray  how  gladly  to  the  eye 
Of  that  past  sinner,  came  in  beauty  forth 
Those  springing  buds,  in  nature's  lavish  love  ? 
Perchance  they  led  him  back  in  healthful  thought, 
To  some  green  spot,  where  in  his  early  years, 
The  wild  flower  rose,  like  him,  unstained  and  free. 

Oh,  many  a  thought  swept  o'er  my  busy  mind, 
And  my  heart  said,  God  bless  thee,  erring  one, 
Now  new-born  to  the  world !    May  heavenly  flowers 
Spring  up  and  blossom  on  thy  purer  way ! 

A  deep,  pathetic  consciousness  I  felt 
Stirring  my  soul  in  that  forsaken  cell. 
It  seemed  the  nest  from  whence  had  flown  the  bird, 
Or  chrysalis,  from  whose  dark  folds  had  burst 
The  unfettered  wing ;  or  grave,  from  whence  the  spirit 
Wrapt  in  earth's  death-robe  long,  had  sprung  in  joy. 

Thus  be  the  door  of  mercy  oped  for  me, 
And  leaving  far  the  prison-house  of  sin, 
Thus  may  my  spirit  range. 


CAROLINE  GILMAN. 


101 


MARY  ANNA  GIBBES,  THE  YOUNG  HEROINE  OF 
STONO,  S.  C,  1779* 

Stono,  on  thy  still  banks 
The  roar  of  war  is  heard ;  its  thunders  swell 
And  shake  yon  mansion,  where  domestic  love 
Till  now  breathed  simple  kindness  to  the  heart ; 
Where  white-armed  childhood  twined  the  neck  of  age, 
Where  hospitable  cares  lit  up  the  hearth, 
Cheering  the  lonely  traveller  on  his  way. 

A  foe  inhabits  there ;  and  they  depart. 
The  infirm  old  man,  the  gentle  household  band, 
Seeking  another  home.  —  Home!  Who  can  tell 
The  touching  power  of  that  most  sacred  word, 
Save  he  who  feels  and  weeps  that  he  has  none  ? 

Among  that  group  of  midnight  exiles,  fled 
Young  Mary  Anna,  on  whose  youthful  cheek 
But  thirteen  years  had  kindled  up  the  rose. 
A  laughing  creature,  breathing  heart  and  love. 
Yet  timid  as  the  fawn  in  southern  wilds. 
E'en  the  night  reptile  on  the  dewy  grass 
Startled  the  maiden,  and  the  silent  stars 
Looking  so  still  from  out  their  cloudy  home 
Troubled  her  mind.    No  time  was  there  for  gauds 

*  This  authentic  anecdote  is  related  by  Major  Garden.  It  is  poetry  in 
itself,  without  the  aid  of  measured  language  ;  but  it  is  hoped  its  present 
form  may  extend  the  knowledge  of  this  Carolina  maiden  among  her  coun- 
trymen. "  The  gallant  Lieutenant-Colonel  Fenwick,  so  much  distinguished 
for  his  services  in  the  war  of  1812,  was  the  person  saved." 


102 


CAROLINE  OILMAN. 


And  toilet  art,  in  this  quick  flight  of  fear ; 
Her  glossy  hair,  damped  by  the  midnight  winds. 
Lay  on  her  neck  dishevelled ;  gathered  round 
Her  form  in  hurried  folds  clung  her  few  garments ; 
Now  a  quick  thrilling  sob,  half  grief,  half  dread, 
Came  bursting  from  her  heart, — and  now  her  eyes 
Glared  forth,  as  pealed  the  cannon,  then  beneath 
Their  drooping  lids,  sad  tears  redundant  flowed. 

But  sudden  'mid  the  group  a  cry  arose, 
"  Fenwick !  where  is  he  !"    None  returned  reply ; 
But  a  sharp,  piercing  glance  went  out,  around, 
Keen  as  a  mother's  toward  her  infant  child 
When  sudden  danger  lowers,  and  then  a  shriek 
From  one,  from  all  burst  forth — "  He  is  not  here !" 

Poor  boy,  he  slept,  nor  crash  of  hurrying  guns. 
Nor  impious  curses,  nor  the  warrior's  shout 
Awoke  his  balmy  rest !  He  dreamt  such  dreams 
As  float  round  childhood's  couch,  of  angel  faces 
Peering  through  clouds — of  sunny  rivulets. 
Where  the  fresh  stream  flows  rippling  on,  to  waft 
A  tiny  sail; — and  of  his  rabbits  white. 
With  eyes  of  ruby,  and  his  tender  fawn's 
Long  delicate  limbs,  light  tread,  and  graceful  neck. 
He  slept  unconscious.    Who  shall  wake  that  sleep  ? 
All  shrink — for  now  the  artillery  louder  roars;  — 
The  frightened  slaves  crouch  at  their  master's  side. 
And  he,  infirm  and  feeble,  scarce  sustains 
His  sinking  weight. 

There  was  a  pause,  a  hush 
So  deep,  that  one  could  hear  the  forest  leaves 


CAROLINE  OILMAN. 


Flutter  and  drop  between  the  war-gun's  peal. 
Then  forward  stood  that  girl,  young  Mary  Anna, 
The  tear  dried  off  upon  her  cheek,  the  sob 
Crushed  down,  and  in  that  high  and  lofty  tone 
Which  sometimes  breathes  of  woman  in  the  child. 
She  said,  "  He  shall  not  die !"  and  turned,  alone. 
Alone  ?  oh,  gentle  girlhood,  not  alone 
Art  thou  if  One,  watching  above,  will  guard 
Thee  on  thy  way ! 

Clouds  shrouded  up  the  stars  : 
On — on  she  sped,  the  gun's  broad  glare  her  beacon 
The  wolf-growl  sounded  near — on,  onward  still ; 
The  forest  trees  like  warning  spirits  moaned, — 
She  pressed  her  hand  against  her  throbbing  heart, 
But  faltered  not.    The  whizzing  shot  went  by. 
Scarce  heeded,  went.    Passed  is  a  weary  mile, 
With  the  light  step  a  master-spirit  gives 
On  duty's  road,  and  she  has  reached  her  home. 
Her  home — is  this  her  home,  at  whose  fair  gate 
Stern  foes  in  silence  stand  to  bar  her  way  ? 
That  gate,  which  from  her  infant  childhood  leaped 
On  its  wide  hinges,  glad  at  her  return  ? 
Before  the  sentinels  she  trembling  stood. 
And  with  a  voice,  whose  low  and  tender  tones 
Rose  like  a  ring-dove's  in  midsummer  storms, 
She  said, 

"  Please  let  me  pass,  and  seek  a  child, 
Who  in  my  father's  mansion  has  been  left 
Sleeping,  unconscious  of  the  danger  near." 
While  thus  she  spoke,  a  smile  incredulous 

14 


104 


CAROLINE  OILMAN. 


Stole  o'er  the  face  of  one — the  other  cursed 
And  barred  her  from  the  way, 

"Oh  sirs,"  she  cried, 
While  from  her  upraised  eyes  the  tears  streamed  down, 
And  her  small  hands  were  clasped  in  agony, 
"  Drive  me  not  hence,  I  pray.    Until  to-night 
I  dared  not  stray  beyond  my  nurse's  side 
In  the  dim  twilight ;  yet  I  now  have  come 
Alone,  unguarded,  this  far,  dreary  mile, 
By  darkness  unappalled  ; — a  simple  worm 
Would  often  fright  my  heart,  and  bid  it  flutter ; 
But  now  I  've  heard  the  wild  wolf's  hungry  howl 
With  soul  undaunted — till  to-night  I 've  shrunk 
From  men  : — and  soldiers!  scarcely  dared  I  look 
Upon  their  glittering  arms  :  — but  here  I  come 
And  sue  to  you,  men,  warriors  : — drive  me  not 
Away.    He  whom  I  seek  is  yet  a  child, 
A  prattling  boy,  and  must  he,  must  he  die  ? 
Oh,  if  you  love  your  children,  let  me  pass. 
You  will  not  ?    Then  my  strength  and  hope  are  gone, 
And  I  shall  perish  ere  I  reach  my  friends." 

And  then  she  pressed  her  brow,  as  if  those  hands 
So  soft  and  small,  could  still  its  throbbing  pulse. 
The  sentinels  looked  calmly  on,  like  men 
Whose  blades  had  toyed  with  sorrow,  and  made  sport 
Of  woe.    One  step  the  maiden  backward  took. 
Lingering  in  thought ;  then  hope,  like  a  soft  flush 
Of  struggling  twilight,  kindled  in  her  eyes. 
She  knelt  before  them,  and  reurged  her  plea. 


CAROLINE  OILMAN. 


105 


"  Perchance  you  have  a  sister,  sir ;  or  you ; 
A  poor  young  thing  like  me  :  if  she  were  here 
Kneeling  like  me,  before  my  countrymen, 
They  would  not  spurn  her  thus !" 

"  Go,  girl — pass  on  ! 
The  softened  voice  of  one  replied ;  nor  was 
She  checked,  nor  waited  she  to  hear  repulse, 
But  darted  through  the  avenue,  attained 
The  hall,  and  springing  up  the  well  known  stairs 
With  such  a  flight  as  the  young  eagle  takes 
To  gain  its  nest,  she  reached  the  quiet  couch, 
Where  in  bright  dreams  the  unconscious  sleeper  lay. 
Slight  covering  o'er  the  rescued  boy  she  threw, 
And  caught  him  in  her  arms.    He  knew  that  cheek. 
Kissed  it  half-waking,  then  around  her  neck 
His  hands  entwined,  and  dropped  to  sleep  again. 

She  bore  him  onward,  dreading  now  for  him 
The  shot  that  whizzed  along,  and  tore  the  earth 
In  fragments  by  her  side — she  reached  the  guards, 
Who  silent  oped  the  gate,  then  hurried  on; 
But  as  she  passed  them,  from  her  heart  burst  forth — 
"  God  bless  you,  ever !"  and  then  urged  her  way  ; 
Those  arms,  whose  heaviest  load  and  task  had  been 
To  poise  her  doll,  and  wield  her  childhood's  toys. 
Bearing  the  boy  along  the  dangerous  road. 
Voices  at  length  she  hears — her  friends  are  near — 
They  meet,  and  yielding  up  her  precious  charge, 
She  sinks  upon  her  father's  breast,  in  doubt 
'Twixt  smiles  and  tears. 


106 


CAROLINE  OILMAN. 


The  following  thoughts  were  suggested  by  Mrs.  Hemans'  beautiful 
to  "The  English  Boy." 

THE  AMERICAN  BOY. 

Look  up,  my  young  American ! 

Stand  firmly  on  the  earth, 
Where  noble  deeds  and  mental  power 

Give  titles  over  birth. 

A  hallowed  land  thou  claim'st,  my  boy. 

By  early  struggles  bought, 
Heaped  up  with  noble  memories — 

And  wide — ay,  wide  as  thought ! 

On  the  high  Alleghany's  range. 

Awake  thy  joyous  song; 
Then  o'er  our  green  savannahs  stray. 

And  gentle  notes  prolong. 

Awake  it  'mid  the  rushing  peal 

Of  dark  Niagara's  voice, 
Or  by  thine  ocean  rivers  stand, 

And  in  their  joy  rejoice : 

What  though  we  boast  no  ancient  towers 
Where  "ivied"  streamers  twine? 


CAROLINE  OILMAN. 


107 


The  Laurel  lives  upon  our  soil,* 
The  Laurel,  boy,  is  thine. 

What  though  no  "minster  lifts  the  cross," 

Tinged  by  the  sunset  fire  ? 
Freely  religion's  voices  float 

Round  every  village  spire. 

And  who  shall  gaze  on  yon  "blue  sea," 

If  thou  must  turn  away, 
When  bold  Columbia's  stripes  and  stars 

Are  floating  in  the  day? 

Who  thunders  louder,  when  the  strife 

Of  gathering  war  is  stirred  ? 
Who  ranges  further,  when  the  call 

Of  commerce'  voice  is  heard  ? 

And  though  on  "  Cressy's  distant  field " 

Thy  gaze  may  not  be  cast, 
While  through  long  centuries  of  blood 

Rise  spectres  of  the  past ; 

The  future  wakes  thy  dreamings  high. 
And  thou  a  note  mayst  claim, 

*  The  Laurel  grows  in  its  beautiful  varieties  throughout  the  United 
States.  The  Kalmia  at  the  North  ;  at  the  South,  the  splendid  MagnoUa 
Grandiflora. 


CAROLINE  OILMAN. 


Aspirings  which  in  after  times 
Shall  swell  the  trump  of  fame. 

Yet  scenes  are  here  for  tender  thought — 

Here  sleep  the  good  and  brave ! 
Here  kneel,  my  boy,  and  raise  thy  vow 

Above  the  patriot's  grave. 

On  Moultrie's  isle,  on  Bunker's  height, 

On  Monmouth's  heated  line, 
On  Eutaw's  field,  on  Yorktown's  bank 

Erect  thy  loyal  shrine. 

And  when  thou'rt  told  of  knighthood's  shield. 

And  English  battles  won. 
Look  up,  my  boy,  and  breathe  one  word — 

The  name  of  Washington. 


S.  ANNA  LEWIS. 

Mrs.  Lewis,  formerly  Miss  Robinson,  of  Baltimore,  resides  at  Brool<- 
lyn.  Long  Island,  where  her  leisure  is  employed  by  literary  studies,  and 
extended  poetical  composition.  Her  first  volume  of  poems,  entitled  "  Re- 
cords of  the  Heart,"  appeared  in  1844.  Two  years  later  it  was  followed 
by  "  The  Broken  Trust,"  a  poem  in  three  cantos ;  and  within  the  last  sea- 
son has  been  issued  a  new  volume — "The  Child  of  the  Sea,"  which 
is  highly  praised  by  critics.    We  give  the  following  extracts. 

GREECE. 

Shrine  of  the  Gods !  mine  own  eternal  Greece ! 

When  shall  thy  weeds  be  doffed — thy  mourning  cease  ? 

The  gyves  that  bind  thy  beauty  rent  in  twain, 

And  thou  be  living,  breathing  Greece  again  ? 

Grave  of  the  mighty!    Hero — Poet — Sage — 

Whose  deeds  are  guiding  stars  to  every  age ! 

Land  unsurpassed  in  glory  and  despair, 

Still  in  thy  desolation  thou  art  fair  ! 

Low  in  sepulchral  dust  lies  Pallas'  shrine — 

Low  in  sepulchral  dust  thy  Fanes  divine — 

And  all  thy  visible  self;  yet  o'er  thy  clay. 

Soul,  beauty  lingers,  hallowing  decay. 

Not  all  the  ills  that  war  entailed  on  thee — 
Not  all  the  blood  that  stained  Thermopylae — 
Not  all  the  desolation  traitors  wrought — 
Not  all  the  woe  and  want  invaders  brought — 


S.  ANNA  LEWIS. 

Not  all  the  tears  that  slavery  could  wring 
From  out  thy  heart  of  patient  suffering — 
Not  all  that  drapes  thy  loveliness  in  night, 
Can  quench  thy  spirit's  never-dying  light ; 
But  hovering  o'er  the  dust  of  gods  enshrined, 
It  beams,  a  beacon  to  the  march  of  mind — 
An  oasis  to  sage  and  bard  forlorn  — 
A  guiding  light  to  centuries  unborn. 

For  thee  I  mourn — thy  blood  is  in  my  veins  — 

To  thee  by  consanguinity's  strong  chains 

I 'm  bound,  and  fain  would  die  to  make  thee  free ; 

But  oh !  there  is  no  Liberty  for  thee ! 

Not  all  the  wisdom  of  thy  greatest  One — * 

Not  all  the  bravery  of  Thetis'  Son — f 

Not  all  the  weight  of  mighty  Phoebus'  ire  — 

Not  all  the  magic  of  the  Athenian's  Lyre  — t 

Can  ever  bid  thy  tears  or  mourning  cease. 

Or  rend  one  gyve  that  binds  thee,  lovely  Greece ! 

Where  Corinth  weeps  beside  Lepanto's  deep. 
Her  palaces  in  desolation  sleep. 
Seated  till  dawn  on  moonlit  column,  I 
Have  sought  to  probe  eternal  Destiny, 
I 've  roamed,  fair  Hellas,  o'er  thy  battle-plains. 
And  stood  within  Apollo's  ruined  fanes. 
Invoked  the  spirits  of  the  past  to  wake. 
Assist  with  swords  of  fire  thy  chains  to  break ; 

*  Lycurgus.  f  Achilles.  :j:  Homer. 


S.  ANNA  LEWIS.  Ill 

But  only  from  the  hollow  sepulchres, 

Murmured,  "  Eternal  slavery  is  hers  !" 

And  on  thy  bosom  I  have  laid  my  head, 

And  poured  my  soul  out — tears  of  lava  shed; 

Before  thy  desecrated  altars  knelt. 

To  calmer  feelings  felt  my  sorrows  melt ; 

And  gladly  with  thee  would  have  made  my  home, 

But  pride  and  hate  impelled  me  o'er  the  foam. 

To  distant  lands  and  seas  unknown  to  roam. 

THE  HOLY  LAND. 

Oh  God  !  it  is  a  melancholy  sight, 

To  see  that  Land,  whence  sprung  all  sacred  light, 

Delight  of  men,  and  most  beloved  of  God, 

Where  happy  first  our  primal  parents  trod, 

Where  Hagar  mourned,  and  Judah's  minstrel  sung, 

With  the  dark  pall  of  desolation  hung ! 

No  band  of  warriors  crowds  the  royal  gate ; 

No  suppliant  millions  in  the  temples  wait ; 

No  prophet  minstrel  swells  the  tide  of  song  ; 

No  mighty  seer  enchains  the  breathless  throng  ; 

But  from  the  Jordan  to  the  ^gean  tide. 

From  Ganges  to  Euphrates'  fertile  side. 

From  Mecca's  plains  to  lofty  Lebanon, 

The  ashes  of  departed  worlds  are  strown. 

On  Carmel's  heights — on  Pisgah's  tops  I've  stood 

And  paced  Epirus'  savage  solitude  ; 

Before  the  sepulchre  of  Jesus  knelt. 

And  by  the  Galilean  waters  dwelt ; 

15 


S.  ANNA  LEWIS. 


Wandered  among  Assyria's  ruins  vast, 
Feeding  my  mute  thoughts  on  the  silent  past — 
Pride — Splendour — Glory — Desolation — Crime 
And  the  deep  mystery  of  the  birth  of  Time. 

LOVE. 

Now,  while  propitious  silence  chains  the  grove, 
No  ear  is  ope  to  hear  my  bosom's  yearning, 

I  '11  breathe  to  thee  the  fond,  undying  Love, 
That  in  the  censer  of  this  heart  lies  burning. 

DESPAIR. 

Oh !  what  is  there  in  all  this  cheerless  life ! 
What  pang  in  her  dark  catalogue  of  strife  ! 
Like  that  we  feel,  when  in  we  turn  our  eyes 
Upon  the  heart  that  paralytic  lies, 
So  cold,  so  dead,  all  antidotes  seem  vain. 
To  rouse  it  into  feeling  warm  again ! 
What  like  that  dizzy  sickness  of  the  soul, 
Becalmed  on  life's  dead  wave  without  a  goal — 
No  drop  to  cool  its  thirstings  of  despair — 
No  breath  to  still  the  pestilential  air — 
No  fanning  breeze  its  stagnant  bark  to  move — 
No  haven  below — no  beacon-star  above ! 


ELIZABETH 


BOGART. 


Miss  Bogart  is  the  second  daughter  of  the  late  Rev.  David  S,  Bogart, 
of  the  city  of  New  York,  who  was  first  settled  as  a  minister  of  the  gos- 
pel at  Southampton,  on  Long  Island,  and  was  well  known  by  his  contem 
poraries  as  an  accomplished  scholar  and  eloquent  preacher.  From  her 
father  she  received  the  principal  part  of  her  education ;  and  in  the  leisure 
and  retirement  of  the  country,  where  her  early  years  were  passed,  her  in- 
clination for  literary  pursuits  was  cultivated  and  indulged  as  a  source  of 
pleasure  and  amusement.  She  has  been  for  several  years  a  resident  of  the 
city  of  her  birth,  and  an  occasional  contributor,  under  the  signature  of 
"  Estelh^''  to  many  of  the  periodicals  of  the  day.  The  New  York  Mirror 
first  introduced  her  to  the  public  m  1825,  since  which  time  her  poems  have 
been  extensively  circulated  in  the  different  journals,  and  some  of  them 
reprinted  from  year  to  year — but  they  have  never  been  published  col- 
lectively in  a  volume,  and  few  of  them  have  appeared  under  her  real 
name. 

SHE  KNEW  SHE  WAS  DESERTED! 

She  knew  she  was  deserted  !  and  when  once 
The  full  conviction  settled  on  her  mind 
That  he  had  left  her,  she  broke  through  the  spell 
Which  had  enchained  her  heart's  strong  energies. 
And  was  herself  again.    No  longer  bound 
By  love's  despotic  power,  she  strove  to  fill 
The  aching  void  in  life,  with  her  rich  thoughts, 
Which  sprung  again  unfettered  ;  and  essayed 


ELIZABETH  BOGART. 


With  fancy's  dreams  to  charm  the  weary  hours, 
And  cheer  the  isolated  solitude 
Which  he  had  left  around  her.    She  despised 
His  utter  selfishness — and  yet  'twas  long 
Ere  her  crushed  spirits  could  revive,  with  all 
Their  early  elasticity  and  power. 

She  knew  that  they  were  parted,  and  for  ever — 
As  wide  as  though  the  broad  Atlantic's  waves 
Between  them  rolled ;  or  death  had  formed  a  gulf. 
Darker  and  deeper  than  the  trackless  sea. 
She  cared  not  that  the  sky  of  their  own  land 
Spread  the  same  clouds  and  sunshine  o'er  them  both. 
'Twere  all  the  same  to  her — she  only  felt 
That  the  heart's  chain  was  broken,  and  that  life 
Were  all  alike,  in  any  place  or  part 
Of  the  vast  universe.    It  was  a  blank — 
The  future,  nothing — and  the  past,  one  thought 
Of  his  inconstancy.    This  haunted  her 
With  an  undying  memory,  blighting  hope. 
And  making  the  green  earth  a  desert  waste. 

She  asked  not  why  he  had  forsaken  her — 
If  wealth  had  bought  his  love,  or  beauty  made 
To  his  own  conscience  an  apology 
For  broken  vows.    Whatever  it  might  be. 
She  deemed  that  hers  was  but  the  common  lot ; 
And  called  in  Reason  and  Philosophy, 
To  dissipate  her  heart's  first  agony. 
Philosophy  and  Reason  !  Oh,  how  vain 
Their  lessons  to  the  feelings  !  They  but  teach 
To  hide  them  deeper,  and  to  show  a  calm 


ELIZABETH  BOGART. 


115 


Unruffled  surface  to  the  idle  gaze. 
And  yet  she  studied  them,  till  Passion's  force 
Yielded  to  their  cold  precepts,  and  her  mind 
Surmounted  woman's  weakness.    She  had  borne 
To  see  his  love  decrease  by  slow  degrees ; 
So  slight  the  change  at  first  it  was  not  seen, 
But  only  felt — a  doubt,  a  dread,  a  pang — 
Passing  at  intervals  across  her  heart, 
And  waking  many  a  dark  and  bitter  thought 
Of  man's  inconstancy — but  when  the  truth 
Flashed  suddenly  upon  her,  clear  and  full. 
The  anguish  and  the  bitterness  were  past. 

The  fountains  of  aflfection  in  her  heart 
Were  frozen  at  their  source.    She  had  not  loved 
As  mm  love,  who  love  often.    Hers  had  been 
A  single  sentiment  for  one  alone — 
An  all-engrossing  passion,  which  had  lived 
On  Hope  and  Faith — till  Hope,  fond  woman's  hope, 
Fled  from  her  heart ;  and  Faith,  vain  faith  in  man. 
Slid  from  its  resting-place — and  then  she  felt 
That  love  which  clung  to  aught  of  earthly  mould. 
As  well  were  cast  on  the  unstable  sea. 
Or  the  inconstant  wind.    Change  passeth  on 
And  toucheth  all  things  human,  as  it  sweeps 
O'er  Nature's  face,  with  ever  varying  shades. 

And  so  it  came  at  last,  at  last  to  her — 
The  change  from  her  deep  love  to  cold  contempt. 
For  woman's  heart,  though  it  forgiveth  much. 
And  trusteth  long,  is  stronger  in  its  scorn. 
As  it  has  greatly  felt  its  trust  deceived. 


116 


ELIZABETH  BOGART. 


TO  MY  COUSIN. 

Time  has  swept  on,  and  changeful  hues  have  decked  his 
flying  plumes, 

As  now  the  wild  romance  of  thought  a  thousand  shades 
assumes. 

Time  has  swept  on  since  first  we  met,  and  Hope  so  gaily 
smiled, 

When  thou  wert  in  youth's  early  spring,  and  I  was  still  a 
child. 

My  cousin!  dost  thou  not  look  back  upon  those  careless 
hours, 

And  feel  how  crushed  and  faded  now  are  life's  first  blooming 
flowers  ? 

How  like  a  dream  those  joys  which  filled  the  heart's  ima- 
ginings, 

How  brighter  far  was  fancy's  power  than  aught  that  memory 
brings  ? 

And  yet  how  is  it  that  thy  brow  wears  not  the  marks  of 
care — 

That  fortune's  changes  have  not  made  a  single  furrow  there ! 
I  deemed  thy  heart  was  still  the  same,  but  scarcely  thought 
to  find 

Thy  looks,  so  like  the  looks  of  old,  engraven  on  my  mind. 


ELIZABETH  BOGART. 


117 


I  could  forget  that  time  had  flown,  while  gazing  on  thy  face, 
But  that  upon  the  chequered  past,  his  ruins  still  I  trace. 
Where  are  the  hopes  whose  brilliant  beams  made  life  a 

cloudless  scene  ? 
I  know  not  where  !  but  they  are  now  as  if  they  ne'er  had 

been. 

The  future  has  no  second  ray  like  Hope's  first  star  of  light, 
The  heart  no  second  dreams  of  bliss,  so  beautiful  and  bright 
As  those  ere  life's  first  confidence  has  been  deceived  and  lost, 
Ere  treachery  and  ingratitude  the  trusting  mind  have  crossed. 

My  cousin !  hast  thou  learned  to  doubt  professions,  and 
distrust 

The  word  of  promise  ?  if  not  so,  the  world  has  been  more 
just 

To  thee  than  me  ;  and  thou  canst  not  the  feeling  comprehend, 
Which  bids  the  heart  to  fear  the  more,  the  more  it  loves  a 
friend. 

Time  has  swept  on,  and  in  his  flight  the  separating  years 
Between  us  have  been  gathering,  in  sunshine  and  in  tears. 
And  we  should  be  as  strangers  now,  nor  cast  a  thought 
behind, 

But  that  there  is  a  tie  of  blood,  which  time  can  ne'er  unbind. 


118 


ELIZABETH  BOGART 


I'M  WEARY  WITH  THINKING! 

I 'm  weary  with  thinking !  I 'm  weary  and  sad 

With  the  dark  thoughts  that  throng  on  my  mind !  oh,  that 
now, 

From  the  garden  where  long  since  they  flourished,  I  had 
A  chaplet  of  poppies,  to  bind  on  my  brow  ! 

Full  often  I  dream  of  that  garden  afar — 
It  lies  in  the  past,  like  a  bright  sunny  spot. 

Still  blooming,  as  first,  beneath  life's  morning  star. 
Unaltered  by  time,  by  my  heart  unforgot. 

1  've  wandered  in  gardens  more  fair  to  the  eye, 

Whose  rich  flowers  yielded  their  sweets  to  the  bee  — 

But  the  gorgeous-dressed  poppies  looked  brighter — and  why? 
Oh,  that  was  the  Garden  of  Eden  to  me ! 

I 'm  weary  with  thinking !  with  visions  that  pass 

So  thickly  and  gloomily  over  my  brain, 
In  which  are  reflected  through  Memory's  glass 

The  lost  scenes  of  youth,  which  return  not  again. 

Oh,  now  I  look  back  and  remember  the  hours 

When  I  wished  that  a  time  of  sweet  leisure  might  come. 

When  freed  from  employments  and  studies,  the  powers 
Of  thought  were  all  loosened,  in  fancy  to  roam. 


ELIZABETH  BOGART. 


119 


That  time  has  arrived !    Care  nor  business  conspire 
To  restrain  the  mind's  freedom,  nor  press  on  the  heart ; 

No  stern  prohibition  hangs  over  the  lyre, 
To  bid  all  its  bright  inspirations  depart. 

But  how  has  it  come !   Oh,  by  breaking  the  ties 
Of  affection  and  kindred,  and  snatching  away 

The  beloved  from  around  me,  whose  praise  were  the  prize 
Which  allured  me  in  poesy's  pathway  to  stray. 

The  leisure  that  leaves  me  in  idleness  now, 

Brings  a  pressure  of  thought,  till  I 'm  weary  and  sad — 

And  I  sigh  for  the  poppies  to  bind  on  my  brow. 
The  poppies  of  old,  in  their  gorgeous  hues  clad. 

Fain,  fain  would  I  sleep,  with  their  charm  on  my  mind, 
To  lull  me  with  dreams  of  my  youth,  ever  blest, 

The  girdle  which  presses  my  brain,  to  unbind, 

For  I 'm  weary  with  thinking,  and  longing  for  rest. 

But  why  should  I  seek  it  in  aught  of  this  earth ! 

Know  I  not  that  its  charms  and  its  opiates  are  vain  ? 
Oh,  have  I  not  proved  the  extent  of  their  worth. 

That  while  they  cry  "Peace,  there's  no  peace"  in  their  train! 

Then  let  me  look  upward,  where  only  is  rest, 

Where  thought  never  wearies,  nor  sadness  appears. 

Where  reunion  with  friends,  in  the  home  of  the  blest. 
Is  eternal,  and  "God  wipes  away  all  our  tears !" 

16 


LUELLA  J.  B.  CASE. 


Mrs.  Case  is  a  native  of  Kingston,  New  Hampshire,  and  is  the  grand- 
daughter of  JosiAH  Baktlett,  One  of  the  signers  of  the  Declaration 
of  Independence.  She  was  married,  in  1828,  to  E.  Case,  then  of  Lowell, 
Massachusetts;  and  since  that  time  has  resided  mostly  there,  though  more 
recently  at  Portland,  Maine,  and  Cincinnati,  Ohio.  She  has  written  but 
little  for  the  press,  and  only  for  publications  conducted  by  her  husband  and 
friends. 

THE  INDIAN  RELIC. 

Years  ago  was  made  thy  grave 
By  the  Ohio's  languid  wave, 
When  primeval  forests  dim 
Echoed  to  the  wild  bird's  hymn ; 
From  that  lone  and  quiet  bed, 
Relic  of  the  unknown  dead, 
Why  art  thou,  a  mouldering  thing. 
Here  amongst  the  bloom  of  spring? 

Violets  gem  the  fresh,  young  grass; 
Softest  breezes  o'er  thee  pass; 
Nature's  voice,  in  tree  and  flower, 
Whispers  of  a  waking  hour; 
Village  sounds  below  are  ringing; 
Birds  around  thee  joyous  singing — 
Thou,  upon  this  height  alone, 
No  reviving  power  hast  known ! 


LUELLA  J.  B.  CASE. 


Yet  wert  thou  of  human  form, 
Once  with  all  life's  instincts  warm, — 
Quailing  at  the  storm  of  grief 
Like  the  frailest  forest  leaf, — 
With  a  bounding  pulse — an  eye 
Brightening  o'er  its  loved  ones  nigh, 
Till  beneath  this  cairn  of  trust 
Dust  was  laid  to  blend  with  dust. 

When  the  red  man  ruled  the  wood. 
And  his  frail  canoe  yon  flood, 
Hast  thou  held  the  unerring  bow 
That  the  antlered  head  laid  low  ? 
And  in  battle's  fearful  strife 
Swung  the  keen,  remorseless  knife? 
Or,  with  woman's  loving  arm 
Shielded  helplessness  from  harm  ? 

Silent !  silent !    Nought  below 
O'er  thy  past  a  gleam  can  throw. 
Or,  in  frame  of  sinewy  chief, 
Woman,  born  for  love  and  grief — 
Thankless  toil,  or  haughty  sway 
Sped  life's  brief  and  fitful  day. 
Like  the  autumn's  sapless  bough 
Crumbling  o'er  thee,  thou  art  now. 

Rest !  A  young,  organic  world, 
Into  sudden  ruin  hurled, 


122 


LUELLA  J.  B.  CASE. 


Casts  its  fragments  o'er  thy  tomb, 
'Midst  the  woodland's  softened  gloom ! 
Died  those  frail  things  long  ago, 
But  the  soul  no  death  can  know — 
Rest!  Thy  grave,  with  silent  preaching, 
Humble  Hope  and  Faith  is  teaching ! 

Rest!    Thy  warrior  tribes  so  bold 
Roam  no  more  their  forests  old, 
And  the  thundering  fire-canoe 
Sweeps  their  placid  waters  through. 
Science  rules  where  Nature  smiled; 
Art  is  toiling  in  the  wild; 
And  their  mouldering  cairns  alone 
Tell  the  tale  of  races  gone. 

Thus  o'er  Time's  mysterious  sea 
Being  moves  perpetually : 
Crowds  of  swift,  advancing  waves 
Roll  o'er  vanished  nations'  graves; 
But  immortal  treasures  sweep 
Still  unharmed  that  solemn  deep;  — 
Progress  holds  a  tireless  way — 
Mind  asserts  her  deathless  sway. 


LUELLA  J.  B.  CASE. 


123 


DEATH  LEADING  AGE  TO  REPOSE. 

Suggested  by  an  engraving.  A  female  figure,  with  a  face  of  caJm  and  ma- 
jestic sweetness,  is  leading  a  feeble  old  man  towards  a  couch,  from  which  he 
shrinks,  though  evidently  weary  ajid  sinking. 

Lead  him  gently — he  is  weary. 

Spirit  of  the  placid  brow! 
Life  is  long  and  age  is  dreary, 

And  he  seeks  to  slumber  now. 

Lead  him  gently — he  is  weeping 
For  the  friends  he  cannot  see — 

Gently — for  he  shrinks  from  sleeping 
On  the  couch  he  asks  of  thee ! 

Thou,  with  mien  of  solemn  gladness  — 
With  the  thought-illumined  eye — 

Pity  thou  the  mortal's  sadness! 
Teach  him  it  is  well  to  die ! 

Time  has  veiled  his  eye  with  blindness. 

On  thy  face  it  may  not  dwell. 
Or  its  sweet  majestic  kindness 

Would  each  mournful  doubt  dispel. 

Passionless  thine  every  feature — 

Moveless  is  thy  Being's  calm, 
While  poor  suffering  human  nature 

Knows  but  few  brief  hours  of  balm; 


LUELLA  J.  B.  CASE 


Yet  when  life's  long  strife  is  closing, 
And  the  grave  is  drawing  near, 

How  it  shrinks  from  that  reposing 
Where  there  comes  nor  hope  nor  fear 

Open  thou  the  visioned  portal. 
That  reveals  the  life  sublime 

That  within  the  land  immortal 
Waits  the  weary  child  of  Time. 

Open  thou  the  Land  of  Beauty, 
Where  the  Ideal  is  no  dream. 

And  the  child  of  patient  Duty 
Walks  in  joy's  unclouded  beam. 

Thou,  with  brow  that  owns  no  sorrow, 
With  the  eye  that  may  not  weep. 

Point  him  to  Heaven's  coming  morrow— 
Show  him  it  is  well  to  sleep! 


ELIZABETH  S.  SWIFT. 


Mrs.  Swift,  formerly  Miss  Lorrain,  is  a  Philadelphian  by  birth,  and 
first  cousin  of  Leigh  Hunt,  the  poet.  She  is  the  wife  of  Dr.  Joseph  K. 
Swift,  a  gentleman  of  learning  and  science,  with  whom  she  resides  in 
Easton,  Pa. 

TO   . 

"  But  for  me,  oh,  thou  picture-land  of  sleep, 
Thou  art  all  one  world  of  affections  deep." 

Oh,  visit  me  in  dreams ! 
Come,  at  the  hushed  and  solitary  hour, 
When  the  soft  dew  falls  on  the  folded  flower, 

And  the  stars'  silvery  beams. 
Gemming  the  midnight  sky  in  hosts  untold. 
Are  keeping  watch  above  Earth's  slumbering  fold. 

When  not  a  sound  is  heard 
Save  the  deep  murmur  of  the  restless  wave, 
In  music  gliding  to  its  ocean  grave ; 

Or  rustling  plumes  of  bird. 
With  its  young  brood  beneath  its  downy  breast, 
Folding  its  wings  more  closely  o'er  its  nest. 


126 


ELIZABETH  S.  SWIFT. 


Then  come  to  me,  mine  own ! 
And  on  thy  breast  I  '11  lay  my  weary  head, 
And  tell  thee  of  the  thousand  tears  I 've  shed, 

Since  I  was  left  alone, 
Without  the  anchor  of  thy  love,  to  bear 
A  shadowed  life  of  trial  and  of  care ! 

The  tones  of  thy  dear  voice. 
For  which  my  spirit  hath  so  vainly  pined, 
(Though  memory  every  accent  has  enshrined). 

Shall  bid  my  heart  rejoice ; 
And  thou  shalt  speak  to  me  of  other  years. 
Ere  I  had  learned  the  world  was  full  of  tears. 

And  when  the  orient  morn 
Dapples  the  East  with  purple  and  with  gold. 
And  the  sun's  earliest  rays  their  light  unfold ; 

When  Earth  seems  freshly  born, 
And  life's  deep  pulse  asserts  its  active  sway. 
Sending  its  millions  forth  to  greet  the  day. 

Then  with  the  dream  depart ! 
But  its  sweet  influence  still  with  me  shall  dwell, 
Soothing  my  senses  with  delicious  spell ; 

Filling  my  happy  heart 
With  images  of  love  and  pure  delight ; 
And  I  will  bless  thee  for  the  dreams  of  night. 


ELIZABETH  S.  SWIFT. 


127 


SONNETS  TO  ESTELLE, 
I. 

Come  out  upon  the  dewy  hills,  sweet  friend, 

And  let  us  study  Nature's  changeful  face  ; 
Look  how  the  Sun's  last  rays  harmonious  blend. 

Folding  the  woodlands  in  a  warm  embrace : 
Each  glowing  leaf,  stirred  by  the  evening  breeze. 

Gleams  with  prismatic  hues;  crimson  and  gold. 
Purple  and  azure,  seem  the  waving  trees. 

The  mists  their  silvery  vapours  have  unrolled, 
And  hover  o'er  the  river's  troubled  breast ; 

River,  that  'midst  such  deep  and  calm  repose 
For  ever  murmurs  with  a  sad  unrest. 

Like  human  hearts  o'erburdened  with  life's  woes. 
But  see — ^bright  messenger  of  Heaven,  queen  of  the  summer 
skies, 

Filling  the  Earth  with  loveliness — the  Harvest-Moon  arise. 

II. 

Moonlight  upon  the  hills! — there  is  a  spell 
Like  witchery  o'er  us — as  we  gaze  around, 

A  tender  light  illumines  hill  and  dell. 

Falling  in  golden  chequers  on  the  ground. 

Now  perfume  steals  from  out  the  forest  shades ; 
All  fragrant  things  and  fair  their  incense  bring ; 

17 


128 


ELIZABETH  S.  SWIFT. 


And  hark !  amid  the  dim  woods'  tangled  glades, 

I  hear  the  gushing  waters  laugh  and  sing. 
Among  the  clustering  leaves  of  yonder  oak 

A  ring-dove's  nest  is  hid — list  her  soft  moan — 
Love  never  to  Night's  ear  in  language  spoke, 
Calling  with  deeper  fondness  on  its  own. 
World — if  to  thee,  sin-stained,  such  lavish  charms  are  given 
How  can  a  human  thought  conceive  the  spirit  joys  of 
Heaven  ? 


LINES  TO  A  BUNCH  OF  WITHERED  VIOLETS. 

Perished  flowers !  perished  flowers !  to  me  ye  are  more  fair 
Than  radiant  gems  of  Indian  mines,  the  richest  or  the  rare; 
The  sparkling  Diamond's  glittering  sheen,  the  Ruby's  orient 
glow, 

The  Amethyst  that  mocks  the  skies,  no  memories  bestow ; 
But  ye,  pale,  scentless  as  ye  lie,  without  one  tint  of  bloom. 
Are  sibyl  leaves  whose  magic  power  the  future  can  illume ; 
I  gaze, — the  present  it  is  not — the  World,  with  all  its  strife. 
The  weariness — the  vanities — the  thousand  ills  of  life, 
What  are  they  now  to  me? — escaped  like  a  long  prisoned 
bird, 

I  wander  in  a  Paradise,  where  Love  alone  is  heard  ! 
I  look  into  those  beaming  eyes,  words  of  impassioned  tone 
Are  gushing  from  the  ardent  heart  I  feel  is  all  my  own, 
These  wild  flowers  gathered  by  his  hand  are  twined  within 
my  hair, 

A  coronal  to  deck  the  brow  he  thinks  on  earth  most  fair. 


ELIZABETH  S.  SWIFT. 


129 


How  green  the  wood — how  bright  the  sky! — and  list  yon 
warbling  bird, 

He  sings  as  if  his  little  heart  with  our  own  bliss  was  stirred. 
Blessing  and  blest,  we  ramble  on,  like  Eden's  happy  pair, — 
Youth,  and  first-love's  enchanted  dream,  what  glorious  things 
ye  are ! 

Years,  weary  years  have  passed  since  then — in  life  we 
meet  no  more ! 

But  what  is  life?  our  being's  span — death  shall  the  lost 
restore ; 

Yes,  by  our  spirit's  mutual  faith,  the  trust,  the  hope  is  given. 
Through  the  dark  portals  of  the  grave,  to  meet  again  in 
heaven ! 


FIRST  OF  MAY. 

There  is  music  on  the  breeze 
From  a  thousand  tiny  throats. 

And  amid  the  blossomed  trees 
The  wild  birds  pour  their  notes; 

The  rivers  flow  along. 

With  a  murmur  like  a  song; 

But  alas !  I  am  sad !  I  am  sad ! 

'Tis  the  sunny  First  of  May — 
She  is  tripping  on  the  earth, 

To  the  wild  bird's  joyous  lay; 
Fresh  flowerets  hail  her  birth, 


ELIZABETH  S.  SWIFT. 

And  with  fragrant  kisses  greet 
The  coming  of  her  feet; 

But  alas !  I  am  sad !  I  am  sad ! 

For  the  birds  and  perfumed  flowers, 
And  the  waters  glancing  bright, 

But  remind  me  of  those  hours 
Of  exquisite  delight; 

That  lang  syne  First  of  May, 

With  its  glorious  array. 

When  ah!  I  was  glad!  I  was  glad 

The  friends  my  spirit  loved, 
Were  wandering  by  my  side ; 

Whilst  through  the  woods  we  roved, 
Or  watched  the  waters  glide 

In  white  and  glittering  foam, 

To  their  far-off  ocean  home ; 

And  ah!  I  was  glad!  I  was  glad! 

But  Time  hath  all  things  changed. 
Those  blessings  all  have  flown ; 

The  absent  and  estranged 
Have  left  my  heart  alone; 

Then  how  can  I  be  gay. 

On  this  merry  First  of  May  ? 

Ah  no !  I  am  sad !  I  am  sad ! 


ELIZABETH  F.  ELLET. 


Mrs.  Ellet  is  the  daughter  of  the  late  William  N.  Lummis,  a  physi- 
cian and  gentleman  of  taste  and  learning.  She  was  born  at  Sodus,  New 
York,  on  the  banks  of  Lake  Ontario,  and  when  quite  young  was  married 
to  Dr.  William  H.  Ellet,  and  soon  after  removed  to  South  Carolina,  Dr. 
Ellet  being  elected  to  the  chair  of  Chemistry  in  the  South  Carolina  College. 
Her  chief  productions  are  a  volume  of  "  Poems,"  "  The  Characteristics 
of  Schiller,"  "  Scenes  in  the  Life  of  Joanna  of  Sicily,"  and  "  Country 
Rambles,"  besides  various  contributions  to  the  Magazines.  She  has  lately 
published,  in  two  volumes,  duodecimo,  "  The  Women  of  the  Revolution," 
a  work  designed  to  show  the  domestic  side  of  the  Revolutionary  picture. 

LINES  TO   . 

"Thou  in  faithfulness  hast  afflicted  me." — Ps.  cxix.  75. 

Smitten  of  Heaven — and  murmuring  'neath  the  rod — 
Whose  days  are  heavy  with  their  freight  of  gloom : 
Drooping  and  faint,  with  eyes 
Not  yet  by  Faith  unclosed — 

Art  thou  repining  that  thou  stand'st  apart, 
Like  the  tree  lightning-blasted  ?  wrung  with  pain 
No  sympathy  can  heal — 
No  time  can  e'er  assuage : — 


132  ELIZABETH  F.  ELLET. 

That  life  to  thee  is  but  a  sea  of  woe, 
Where  deep  unto  its  deep  of  sorrow  calls; — 
While  others  walk  a  maze 
Of  flowers,  and  smiles,  and  joys ! 


Look  up — thou  lone  and  sorely  stricken  one ! 

Look  up — thou  darling  of  the  Eternal  Sire ! 

More  blest  a  thousand  fold 
Than  they — the  proudly  gay ! 


For  them  Earth  yields  her  all  of  bliss; — for  thee 
Kind  Heaven  doth  violence  to  its  heart  of  love ; 

And  Mercy  holds  thee  fast, 
Fast  in  her  iron  bonds — 


And  wounds  thee  lest  thou  'scape  her  jealous  care, 
And  her  hest  gifts — the  cross  and  thorn — bestows ; 

They  dwell  within  the  vale, 
Where  fruits  and  flowers  abound ; 


Thou  on  Affliction's  high  and  barren  place ; 

But  round  about  the  mount  chariots  of  fire — 
Horses  of  fire — encamp. 
To  keep  thee  safe  for  heaven. 


ELIZABETH  F.  ELLET. 


183 


SONNET. 

Shepherd  !  with  meek  brow  wreathed  with  blossoms  sweet, 
Who  guard'st  thy  timid  flock  with  tenderest  care, 

Who  guidest  in  sunny  paths  their  wandering  feet, 
And  the  young  iambs  dost  in  thy  bosom  bear — 

Who  lead'st  thy  happy  flock  to  pastures  fair. 
And  by  still  waters  at  the  noon  of  day. 

Charming  with  lute  divine  the  silent  air 

What  time  they  linger  on  the  verdant  way — 

Good  Shepherd !  might  one  gentle,  distant  strain 
Of  that  immortal  melody  sink  deep 
Into  my  heart,  and  pierce  its  careless  sleep. 

And  melt  by  powerful  love  its  sevenfold  chain — 
Oh,  then  my  soul  thy  voice  should  know,  and  flee 
To  mingle  with  thy  flock,  and  ever  follow  Thee ! 


SONG. 

Come,  fill  a  pledge  to  sorrow, 

The  song  of  mirth  is  o'er; 
And  if  there's  sunshine  in  our  hearts, 

'Twill  light  our  theme  the  more. 
And  pledge  we  dull  life's  changes, 

As  round  the  swift  hours  pass — 
Too  kind  were  fate,  if  none  but  gems 

Should  sparkle  in  Time's  glass. 


ELIZABETH  F.  ELLET. 

The  dregs  and  foam  together 

Unite  to  crown  the  cup — 
And  well  we  know  the  weal  and  woe 

That  fill  life's  chalice  up! 
Life's  sickly  revellers  perish, 

The  goblet  scarcely  drained; 
Then  lightly  quaff,  nor  lose  the  sweets 

Which  may  not  be  retained. 

What  reck  we  that  unequal 

Its  varying  currents  swell? 
The  tide  that  bears  our  pleasures  down. 

Buries  our  griefs  as  well; 
And  if  the  swift-winged  tempest 

Have  crossed  our  changeful  day, 
The  wind  that  tossed  our  bark  has  swept 

Full  many  a  cloud  away. 

Then  grieve  not  that  nought  mortal 

Endures  through  passing  years — 
Did  life  one  changeless  tenor  keep, 

'Twere  cause,  indeed,  for  tears. 
And  fill  we,  ere  our  parting, 

A  mantling  pledge  to  sorrow ; 
The  pang  that  wrings  the  heart  to-day, 

Time's  touch  will  heal  to-morrow. 


ELIZABETH  F.  ELLET. 


135 


STANZAS. 

How  can  you  bid  me  immure  myself,  pray, 
When  nature  about  me  is  smiling  and  bright  ? 

When  all  out  of  doors  looks  so  lovely  and  gay, 
And  the  sky  is  so  full  of  its  soul-cheering  light  ? 

How  can  you  bid  me  o'er  musty  tomes  pore, 

And  read  my  eyes  out,  while  my  head  aches  in  keeping, 

When  the  woodlands  and  fields  teach  such  beautiful  lore, 
And  my  heart  to  their  gladness  responsive  is  leaping ! 

Like  the  sweet  bard  of  Avon,  far  better  than  books 
I  love  to  peruse  those  rich  blossoming  pages ; 

And  the  sermons  in  stones,  trees,  and  swift-running  brooks. 
Are  more  dear  to  my  mind  than  the  wisdom  of  sages. 

I  was  born  for  rejoicing;  a  "summer  child"  truly  : 
And  kindred  I  claim  with  each  wild  joyous  thing : 

The  light  frolic  breeze — or  the  streamlet  unruly — 
Or  a  cloud  at  its  play — or  a  bird  on  the  wing. 

Could  you  chain  the  blithe  waves  dancing  wild  in  their  glee? 

Could  you  check  the  glad  mockbird,  his  carol  repeating  ? 
Hold  the  laughing  leaves  still  that  are  fluttering  so  free. 

Or  the  sungleams  that  o'er  the  green  meadows  are  fleeting  ? 

And  why  is  my  spirit  attuned  like  a  lute 

To  the  music  that  all  things  around  me  are  feeling. 

If  its  voice  in  that  concert  alone  must  be  mute. 

If  I  shut  out  the  doctrine  of  nature's  revealing  ? 
18 


136 


ELIZABETH  F.  ELLET. 


THE  OLD  LOVE. 

The  old  love,  the  old  love, 

It  hath  a  master  spell, 
And  in  its  home,  the  human  heart. 

It  worketh  strong  and  v^^ell : 
Ah!  well  and  sure  it  worketh, 

And  casteth  out  amain 
Intruding  shapes  of  evil, 

A  sullen,  spectral  train : 
The  serpent,  Pride,  is  crested. 

And  Hate  hath  lips  of  gall ; 
But  the  old  love — the  old  love, 

'T  is  stronger  than  them  all ! 

Years,  weary  years,  have  vanished. 

Lady !  since  whispers  wrought 
The  work  that  sundered  you  and  me, 

With  words  that  poison  thought. 
Oh!  lasting  is  the  sorrow 

Of  a  deep  and  hidden  wound. 
When  with  the  cheerful  morrow 

No  healing  balm  is  found! 
And  easy  't  is  with  words  to  hide 

The  stricken  spirit's  yearning, 
And  wear  a  look  of  icy  pride. 

While  the  heart  within  is  burning! 


ELIZABETH  F.  ELLET, 


Oh,  't  is  a  bitter,  bitter  thing, 

Beneath  God's  holy  sky, 
To  fill  that  sentient  thing,  the  heart, 

With  strife  and  enmity ! 
Yea,  woe  to  those  who  plant  the  seed 

That  yieldeth  nought  but  dole; 
To  those  who  thus  do  murder 

God's  image  in  the  soul! 
Yet  silently  and  softly 

The  dews  of  mercy  fall; 
And  the  old  love — the  old  love — 

It  triumphs  over  all! 

It  was  but  yester-even 

A  vision  light  and  free, 
From  the  old  and  happy  dream-land, 

Came  gliding  down  to  me; 
A  vision,  lady,  of  the  past — 

The  cottage  far  away. 
Where  you  and  I  together 

Oft  sate  at  close  of  day : 
Where  you  and  I  together 

Oft  watched  the  star-lit  skies. 
And  the  soul  of  gentle  kindness 

Beamed  on  me  from  your  eyes. 

And  there  were  pleasant  voices. 
Like  some  remembered  song; 

And  there  were  hovering  shadows, 
A  pale  and  beauteous  throng! 


ELIZABETH  F.  ELLET. 


They  seemed  like  blessed  angels — 

Those  kindly  memories — 
That  floated  on  their  beaming  wings, 

To  steep  the  soul  in  peace! 
They  smiled  upon  me  softly, 

Though  ne'er  a  word  was  spoke; 
And  then  the  golden  past  came  back. 

And  then — my  proud  heart  broke! 

And,  lady,  from  the  vision 

I  wistful  rose  to  pray 
That  unto  ruling  love  might  be 

The  victory  alway. 
Oh!  many  are  its  cruel  foes, 

A  host  well-armed  and  strong, 
And  that  fair  garnished  chamber 

Hath  been  their  dwelling  long; 
But  the  old  love — the  old  love — 

It  hath  a  master  spell, 
And  in  its  home,  the  human  heart. 

It  worketh  sure  and  well! 


ELIZABETH  F.  ELLET. 


SODUS  BAY. 

I  BLESS  thee — native  shore  ! 
Thy  woodlands  gay,  and  waters  sparkling  clear 

'T  is  like  a  dream,  once  more 
The  music  of  thy  thousand  waves  to  hear ! 

As,  murmuring  up  the  sand, 
With  kisses  bright,  they  lave  the  sloping  land  ! 

The  gorgeous  sun  looks  down, 
Bathing  thee  gladly  in  his  noontide  ray ; 

And  o'er  thy  headlands  brown 
With  loving  light  the  tints  of  evening  play. 

Thy  whispering  breezes  fear 
To  break  the  calm  so  softly  hallowed  here. 

Here,  in  her  green  domain, 
The  stamp  of  Nature's  sovereignty  is  found ; 

With  scarce  disputed  reign 
She  dwells  in  all  the  solitude  around. 

And  here  she  loves  to  wear 
The  regal  garb  that  suits  a  queen  so  fair. 

Full  oft  my  heart  hath  yearned 
For  thy  sweet  shades  and  vales  of  sunny  rest ! 

Even  as  the  swan  returned. 
Stoops  to  repose  upon  thine  azure  breast. 


ELIZABETH   F.  ELLET. 

I  greet  each  welcome  spot 
Forsaken  long — but  ne'er,  ah,  ne'er  forgot ! 

'Twas  here  that  memory  grew — 
'T  was  here  that  childhood's  hopes  and  cares  were  left 

Its  early  freshness  too — 
Ere  droops  the  soul,  of  her  best  joys  bereft. 

Where  are  they? — o'er  the  track 
Of  cold  years,  I  would  call  the  wanderers  back ! 

They  must  be  with  thee  still ! 
Thou  art  unchanged — as  bright  the  sunbeams  play — 

From  not  a  tree  or  hill 
Hath  time  one  hue  of  beauty  snatched  away. 

Unchanged  alike  should  be 
The  blessed  things  so  late  resigned  to  thee ! 

Give  back,  oh,  smiling  deep ! 
The  heart's  fair  sunshine,  and  the  dreams  of  youth 

That  in  thy  bosom  sleep — 
Life's  April  innocence,  and  trustful  truth ! 

The  tones  that  breathed  of  yore 
In  thy  lone  murmurs,  once  again  restore ! 

Where  have  they  vanished  all  ? 
Only  the  heedless  winds  in  answer  sigh — 

Still  rushing  at  thy  call, 
With  reckless  sweep  the  streamlet  flashes  by  ! 

And  idle  as  the  air, 
Or  fleeting  stream,  my  soul's  insatiate  prayer ! 


ELIZABETH   F.  ELLET. 


Home  of  sweet  thoughts — farewell ! 
Where'er  through  changeful  life  my  lot  may  be, 

A  deep  and  hallowed  spell 
Is  on  thy  waters  and  thy  woods  for  me ! 

Though  vainly  fancy  craves 
Its  childhood  with  the  music  of  thy  waves ! 


VANITY  OF  THE  VULGAR  GREAT. 

Stay,  thou  ambitious  rill. 
Ignoble  offering  of  some  fount  impure ! 

Beneath  the  rugged  hill. 
Gloomy  with  shade,  thou  hadst  thy  birth  obscure ; 

With  faint  steps  issuing  slow, 
In  scanty  waves  among  the  rocks  to  flow. 

Fling  not  abroad  thy  spray. 
Nor  fiercely  lash  the  green  turf  at  thy  side ! 

What  though  indulgent  May 
With  liquid  snows  hath  swollen  thy  foaming  tide  ? 

August  will  follow  soon. 
To  still  thy  boastings  with  his  scorching  noon. 

Lo !  calmly  through  the  vale 
The  Po,  the  king  of  rivers,  sweeps  along ; 

Yet  many  a  mighty  sail 
Bears  on  his  breast — proud  vessels,  swift  and  strong 

Nor  from  the  meadow's  side 
'Neath  summer's  sun  recedes  his  lessened  tide. 


ELIZABETH  F.  ELLET, 


Thou,  threatening  all  around, 
Dost  foam  and  roar  along  thy  troubled  path ; 

In  grandeur  newly  found, 
Stunning  the  gazer  with  thy  noisy  wrath ! 

Yet,  foolish  stream !  not  one 
Of  all  thy  boasted  glories  is  thine  own. 

The  smile  of  yonder  sky 
Is  brief,  and  change  the  fleeting  seasons  know  : 

On  barren  sands  and  dry. 
Soon  to  their  death  thy  brawling  waves  shall  flow. 

O'er  thee,  in  summer's  heat, 
Shall  pass  the  traveller  with  unmoistened  feet. 


SARAH  C.  MAYO. 


Mrs.  Mayo,  better  known  as  Miss  S.  C.  Edgarton,  was  born  in  the 
romantic  village  of  Shirley,  Middlesex  County,  Massachusetts.  Her  first 
published  articles,  prose  and  poetical,  appeared  in  1837,  in  "  The  Lady's 
Repository,"  a  religious  magazine,  to  which  she  has  since  been  a  regular 
contributor.  Besides  writing  some  juvenile  works,  and  editing  numerous 
miscellaneous  publications,  she  has  edited,  since  its  commencement, 
"  The  Rose  of  Sharon,"  an  Annual,  to  which  she  has  contributed  much 
beautiful  poetry  and  spirited  prose.  In  1846  she  was  married  to  the  Rev. 
A.  D.  Mayo,  Pastor  of  the  Independent  Christian  Society  in  Gloucester, 
Massachusetts.  She  died  in  Boston,  in  July,  1848. 

UDOLLO. 

So  sweet  the  Fount  of  Thura  sings, 

'Tis  said  below  a  maid  there  is, 
Who  strikes  a  lyre  of  silver  strings 

To  spirit  symphonies. 

A  youth  once  sought  that  Fountain's  side; 

Udollo,  of  the  golden  hair; 
He  cast  a  garland  in  the  tide. 

And  thus  invoked  the  maiden  there: 

"  Oh,  Maid  of  Thura !  from  thy  halls 
Of  gleaming  crystal  deign  to  rise ! 

19 


SARAH  C.  MAYO. 


The  golden-haired  Udollo  calls, 

And  yearns  to  gaze  within  thine  eyes; 
Fain  would  he  touch  that  magic  lyre 

Whose  echoes  he  has  heard  above, 
And  kindle  every  dulcet  wire 

With  an  adoring,  burning  love. 
Come,  Maid  of  Thura,  from  thy  halls ; 
The  golden-haired  Udollo  calls!" 

"  Youth  of  the  flaming,  lucent  eye, 
Youth  of  the  lily  hand  and  brow, 

Udollo !  I  have  heard  thy  cry ; 
I  rise  before  thee  now !" 

"  Oh,  maid  with  eyes  of  river-blue. 

With  amber  tresses  dropt  with  gold. 
With  foam-white  bosom  veiled  from  view 

Too  closely  by  the  rainbow's  fold. 
Oh,  Maid  of  Thura !  let  my  hand 

Receive  from  thine  the  silver  lyre ; 
Athwart  thy  white  arm,  Iris-spanned, 

I  see  one  glittering,  trembling  wire ! 
That  trembling  wire  I  would  invoke. 

Ere  to  thy  touch  it  cease  to  quiver; 
The  strain  by  thy  sweet  fingers  woke 

I  would  prolong  for  ever!" 

"  Udollo,  heed !  The  mortal  hand 

That  o'er  that  lone  chord  dare  to  stray, 


SARAH  C.  MAYO. 


Shall  light  a  flaming,  quenchless  brand, 

To  burn  his  very  heart  away. 
Yet  take  the  lyre !  and  I  thy  flowers 

Will  wear  upon  my  heart  for  ever; 
That  heart,  henceforth,  through  long,  lone  hours, 

In  silent  woe,  must  bleed  and  quiver ! 
Enough  if  thou,  oh,  beauteous  love, 

Shalt  find  delight  in  Thura's  lyre; 
Thy  hand  'mid  all  its  strings  may  rove, 

But  ah !  wake  not  the  fatal  wire !" 

The  youth,  whose  eye  with  rapture  glowed, 
Quick  seized  the  lyre  from  Thura's  hand ; 

How  silent  at  that  moment  flowed 
The  Fountain  o'er  the  listening  sand! 

Upon  his  coal-black  steed  he  leapt, 

Struck  gayly  through  the  ringing  wood. 

And,  as  he  went,  he  boldly  swept 
His  lyre  to  every  passing  mood. 

But  hark!  A  low,  sweet  symphony 
Rose  softly  from  the  charmed  wire ; 

Unlike  all  mortal  harmony, 
Unlike  all  human  fire ! 

Hope,  eager  hope — love,  burning  love  — 
Desire,  the  pure,  the  high  desire — 

And  joy,  and  all  the  thoughts  that  move. 
Gushed  wildly  from  that  lyre ! 


SARAH  C.  MAYO, 

And  as  Udollo's  music  died 

Amid  the  columned  aisles  away, 
That  wondrous  chord  swelled  far  and  wide 

Its  sweet  and  ravishing  lay ! 
Still  grew,  at  last,  the  trembling  string ! 

Its  wandering  echoes  back  returned, 
And  round  the  lone  chord  gathering 

In  visible  glory  burned  ! 

But  in  Udollo's  soul  died  not 

The  echoes  of  the  golden  strain; 
A  love — a  woe — he  knew  not  what. 

Flamed  up  within  his  brain! 
But  never  more  his  hand  could  wake. 

By  roving  'mid  its  sister  wires, 
The  string  whose  symphony  could  shake 

His  spirit  to  its  central  fires ! 

But  sometimes  when,  all  calm  above. 

The  moon  bent  o'er  its  gleaming  strings, 
A  strain  of  soft,  entrancing  love 

Waved  o'er  him,  like  a  seraph's  wings 
And  sometimes,  when  the  midnight  gloom 

Allowed  no  wandering  ray  of  light, 
A  deep,  low  music  filled  the  room. 

And  almost  flamed  upon  his  sight. 

And  for  this  rare  and  fitful  strain 
He  waited  with  intense  desire; 


SARAH  C.  MAYO. 


There  centred,  in  delirious  pain, 

His  spirit's  all-devouring  fire. 
As  round  one  glowing  point  on  high. 

We  sometimes  mark  the  electric  light. 
From  the  whole  bosom  of  the  sky. 

In  one  bright,  flaming  crown  unite, 
So  round  that  inward,  fixed  desire, 

Concentred  all  Udollo's  life; 
His  dark  eye  glowed  like  molten  fire. 

Beneath  the  fevered  strife. 

One  night,  when  long  the  lyre  had  slept, 

Udollo's  passion,  like  a  sea 
Of  red-hot  lava,  madly  swept 

His  soul  on  to  its  destiny. 

In  the  deep  blackness  of  that  hour 

When  spectres  walk,  he  seized  the  lyre. 
And  with  a  seraph's  tuneful  power, 

Awoke  the  fatal  wire ! 
Oh,  Thura's  Maid !  where  wert  thou,  then, 

When  mortal  hand  presumed  to  strike 
The  chords  that  only  gods,  not  men, 

Have  power  to  waken  as  they  like? 

A  fire  shot  through  Udollo's  frame 
As  shoots  the  lightning's  forked  dart; 

It  lit  a  hot  and  smothered  flame 
Within  his  deepest  heart. 


SARAH  C.  MAYO. 


He  felt  it  in  its  slow,  sure  path, 

Consume  his  quivering  nerves  away; 
Oh,  could  he  but  have  checked  its  wrath, 

Or  ceased  that  fearful  strain  to  play! 
His  fingers,  cleaving  to  the  wire. 

Had  lost  cdtamunion  with  his  will; 
Within  him  burnt  the  Immortal  Fire, 

The  Heart,  the  Life-Destroyer  still ! 

Days,  weeks,  and  months  whirled  on  and 

No  hope  by  day,  nor  rest  by  night ; 
Only  the  same  wild,  frantic  tone, 

Increasing  in  its  woful  might. 
Intensely  still,  like  lonely  stars 

Far  off  in  some  black  crypt  of  sky, 
Like  Sirius,  or  like  fiery  Mars, 

Glowed  wild  Udollo's  eye. 
His  form  to  shadowy  hue  and  line 

Slow  shrunk  and  faded,  day  by  day ; 
He  seemed  like  some  corroded  shrine. 

Eaten  by  liquid  fire  away. 

At  last,  in  utter  wreck  and  woe, 

Back  to  the  Fountain's  brink  he  crept; 

His  golden  hair,  now  white  as  snow, 
Far  down  his  bosom  swept. 

Silent  the  clouded  waters  flowed; 
The  silver  sand  was  washed  away; 


SARAH  C.  MAYO. 


No  lily  on  its  borders  blowed; 
In  lonely  gloom  it  lay. 

"  Oh,  Maid  of  Thura !  hear  my  cry  ; 

Back  to  thy  hands  thy  lyre  I  bring; 
Take  it,  oh,  take  it,  ere  I  die, 

For  heart  and  soul  are  perishing!" 

No  form  uprose,  no  murmur  stole 

Responsive  from  the  gloomy  tide ; 
Hoarsely  he  heard  the  waters  roll; 

Faintly  the  low  winds  sighed. 
He  sank  upon  the  Fountain's  brink; 

His  hand  fell  listless  on  the  wave ; 
He  heard  the  lyre,  slow  bubbling,  sink 

Deep  in  its  liquid  grave. 

The  fire  went  out  within  his  breast ; 

The  tremor  of  his  nerves  was  still ; 
As  peacefully  he  sank  to  rest 

As  a  tired  infant  will. 

A  radiant  bow  of  sun  and  dew, 

Of  blended  vapours,  white  and  red, 
Up  from  the  Fountain's  bosom  flew. 

And  hung  its  beauty  o'er  his  head. 
And  from  the  waves  a  strain  uprose, 

Delicious  as  an  angel's  song; 
And  this  the  burden  at  its  close :  — 
"  How  sweet  such  dreamless,  deep  repose, 

To  him  who  sins  and  suffers  long !" 


SARAH  C.  MAYO. 


CROSSING  THE  MOOR. 

I  AM  thinking  of  the  glen,  Johnny, 

And  the  little  gushing  brook — 
Of  the  birds  upon  the  hazel  copse. 

And  violets  in  the  nook. 
I  am  thinking  how  we  met,  Johnny, 

Upon  the  little  bridge ; 
You  had  a  garland  on  your  arm 

Of  flag-flowers  and  of  sedge. 

You  placed  it  in  my  hand,  Johnny, 

And  held  my  hand  in  yours ; 
You  only  thought  of  that,  Johnny, 

But  talked  about  the  flowers. 
We  lingered  long  alone,  Johnny, 

Above  that' shaded  stream; 
We  stood  as  though  we  were  entranced 

In  some  delicious  dream. 

It  was  not  all  a  dream,  Johnny, 

The  love  we  thought  of  then. 
For  it  hath  been  our  life  and  light 

For  threescore  years  and  ten. 
But  ah!  we  dared  not  speak  it, 

Though  it  lit  our  cheeks  and  eyes; 
So  we  talked  about  the  news,  Johnny, 

The  weather,  and  the  skies. 


SARAH  C.  MAYO. 


At  last  I  said,  "  Good-night,  Johnny !" 

And  turned  to  cross  the  bridge, 
Still  holding  in  my  trembling  hand 

The  pretty  wreath  of  sedge. 
But  you  came  on  behind,  Johnny, 

And  drew  my  arm  in  yours. 
And  said,  "You  must  not  go  alone 

Across  the  barren  moors." 

Oh,  had  they  been  all  flowers,  Johnny, 

And  full  of  singing  birds. 
They  could  not  have  seemed  fairer 

Than  when  listening  to  those  words! 
The  new  moon  shone  above,  Johnny, 

The  sun  was  nearly  set; 
The  grass  that  crisped  beneath  our  feet 

The  dew  had  slightly  wet; 

One  robin,  late  abroad,  Johnny, 

Was  winging  to  its  nest; 
I  seem  to  see  it  now,  Johnny, 

The  sunshine  on  its  breast. 
You  put  your  arm  around  me, 

You  clasped  my  hand  in  yours, 
You  said,  "So  let  me  guard  you 

Across  these  lonely  moors." 

At  length  we  reached  the  field,  Johnny, 

In  sight  of  father's  door; 
We  felt  that  we  must  part  there; 

Our  eyes  were  brimming  o'er ; 


SARAH  C. 


MAYO. 


You  saw  the  tears  in  mine,  Johnny, 

I  saw  the  tears  in  yours; 
"  You 've  been  a  faithful  guard,  Johnny," 

I  said,  "across  the  moors." 

Then  you  broke  forth  in  a  gush,  Johnny, 

Of  pure  and  honest  love. 
While  the  moon  looked  down  upon  you 

From  her  holy  throne  above, 
And  you  said,  "We  need  a  guide,  Ellen, 

To  lead  us  o'er  Life's  moors; 
I 've  chosen  you  for  mine,  Ellen, 

Oh,  would  that  I  were  yours !" 

We  parted  with  a  kiss,  Johnny, 

The  first,  but  not  the  last ; 
I  feel  the  rapture  of  it  yet. 

Though  threescore  years  have  passed; 
And  you  kissed  my  golden  curls,  Johnny, 

That  now  are  silvery  gray, 
And  whispered,  "  We  are  one,  Ellen, 

Until  our  dying  day !" 

That  dying  day  is  near,  Johnny, 

But  we  are  not  dismayed ; 
We  have  but  one  dark  moor  to  cross, 

Why  need  we  be  afraid? 
We 've  had  a  hard  life's  row,  Johnny, 

But  our  heavenly  rest  is  sure; 
And  sweet  the  love  that  waits  us  there, 

When  we  have  crossed  the  moor. 


MARY  E.  LEE. 


Miss  Lee  is  a  native  and  resident  of  Charleston,  South  Carohna. 

THE  POETS. 

The  poets !  the  poets ! 

Those  giants  of  the  earth ; 
In  mighty  strength,  they  tower  above 

The  men  of  common  birth; 
A  noble  race, — they  mingle  not 

Among  the  motley  throng; 
But  move  with  slow  and  measured  steps 

To  music-notes  alpng! 

The  poets!  the  poets! 

What  conquests  they  can  boast! 
Without  one  drop  of  life-blood  spilt, 

They  rule  a  world's  wide  host; 
Their  stainless  banner  floats  unharmed, 

From  age  to  lengthened  age ; 
And  history  records  their  deeds 

Upon  her  proudest  page ! 

The  poets !  the  poets ! 
How  endless  is  their  fame! 


154 


MARY  E.  LEE. 


Death,  like  a  thin  mist,  comes,  yet  leaves 

No  shadow  on  each  name; 
But  as  yon  starry  gems,  that  gleam 

In  evening's  crystal  sky, 
So  have  they  won  in  memory's  depths 

An  immortality! 

The  poets !  the  poets ! 

Who  doth  not  linger  o'er 
The  glorious  volumes,  that  contain 

Their  pure  and  spotless  lore? 
They  charm  us  in  the  saddest  hours; 

Our  richest  joys  they  feed; 
And  love  for  them  has  grown  to  be 

A  universal  creed ! 

The  poets!  the  poets! 

Those  kingly  minstrels  dead. 
Well  may  we  twine  a  votive  wreath 

Around  each  honoured  head: 
No  tribute  is  too  high  to  give 

Those  crowned  ones  among  men; 
The  poets !  the  true  poets ! 

Thanks  be  to  God  for  them! 


MARY  E.  HEWITT. 


Mrs.  Hewitt,  whose  maiden  name  was  Moore,  is  a  native  of  Maiden, 
Massachusetts.  Her  husband,  James  L.  Hewitt,  Esq.  is  the  extensive  and 
well  known  publisher  of  music.  The  first  contributions  of  this  lady  to  the 
periodicals  were  made  in  the  year  1837,  under  the  signature  of  "  lone."  A 
collection  of  her  poems,  entitled  "  Songs  of  our  Land,"  was  published  by 
Ticknor  &  Co.,  about  two  years  since,  and  was  favourably  received  by 
the  press  and  the  public. 

THE  AXE  OF  THE  SETTLER. 

Thou  conqueror  of  the  wilderness, 

With  keen  and  bloodless  edge — 
Hail !  to  the  sturdy  artisan 

Who  welded  thee,  bold  wedge ! 
Though  the  warrior  deem  thee  weapon 

Fashioned  only  for  the  slave, 
Yet  the  settler  knows  thee  mightier 

Than  the  tried  Damascus  glaive. 

While  desolation  marketh 

The  course  of  foeman's  brand, 
Thy  strong  blow  scatters  plenty 

And  gladness  through  the  land. 
Thou  opest  the  soil  to  culture, 

To  the  sunlight  and  the  dew; 


156 


MARY   E.  HEWITT. 


And  the  village  spire  thou  plantest 
Where  of  old  the  forest  grew. 

When  the  broad  sea  rolled  between  them 

And  their  own  far  native  land, 
Thou  wert  the  faithful  ally 

Of  the  hardy  pilgrim  band; 
They  bore  no  warlike  eagles, 

No  banners  swept  the  sky, 
Nor  the  clarion,  like  a  tempest, 

Swelled  its  fearful  notes  on  high. 

But  the  ringing  wild  re-echoed 

Thy  bold,  resistless  stroke. 
Where,  like  incense,  on  the  morning 

Went  up  the  cabin  smoke. 
The  tall  oaks  bowed  before  thee, 

Like  reeds  before  the  blast ; 
And  the  earth  put  forth  in  gladness, 

Where  the  axe  in  triumph  passed. 

Then  hail !  thou  noble  conqueror  ! 

That,  when  tyranny  oppressed, 
Hewed  for  our  fathers  from  the  wild 

A  land  wherein  to  rest. 
Hail,  to  the  power  that  giveth 

The  bounty  of  the  soil, 
And  freedom,  and  an  honoured  name, 

To  the  hardy  sons  of  toil ! 


MARY  E.  HEWITT. 


GOD  BLESS  THE  MARINER. 

God's  blessing  on  the  Mariner! 

A  venturous  life  leads  he — 
What  reck  the  landsmen  of  their  toil, 

Who  dwell  upon  the  sea? 

The  landsman  sits  within  his  home, 
His  fireside  bright  and  warm; 

Nor  asks  how  fares  the  mariner 
All  night  amid  the  storm. 

God  bless  the  hardy  Mariner ! 

A  homely  garb  wears  he. 
And  he  goeth  with  a  rolling  gait, 

Like  a  ship  upon  the  sea. 

He  hath  piped  the  loud  "  ay,  ay,  sir !" 

O'er  the  voices  of  the  main. 
Till  his  deep  tones  have  the  hoarseness 

Of  the  rising  hurricane. 

His  seamed  and  honest  visage 
The  sun  and  wind  have  tanned, 

And  hard  as  iron  gauntlet 

Is  his  broad  and  sinewy  hand. 

But  oh!  a  spirit  looketh 

From  out  his  clear,  blue  eye. 

With  a  truthful,  childlike  earnestness, 
Like  an  angel  from  the  sky. 


158 


MARY  E.  HEWITT. 


A  venturous  life  the  sailor  leads 
Between  the  sky  and  sea — 

But  when  the  hour  of  dread  is  past, 
A  merrier  who  than  he? 

He  knows  that  by  the  rudder  bands 
Stands  One  well  skilled  to  save; 

For  a  strong  hand  is  the  Steersman's 
That  directs  him  o'er  the  wave. 


THE  CITY  BY  THE  SEA. 

Crowned  with  the  hoar  of  centuries, 

There,  by  the  eternal  sea, 
High  on  her  misty  cape  she  sits. 

Like  an  eagle!  fearless — free! 

And  thus  in  olden  time  she  sat. 

On  that  morn  of  long  ago; 
'Mid  the  roar  of  Freedom's  armament. 

And  the  war-bolts  of  her  foe. 

Old  Time  hath  reared  her  pillared  walls, 

Her  domes  and  turrets  high; 
With  her  hundred  tall  and  tapering  spires. 

All  flashing  to  the  sky. 


MARY  E.  HEWITT. 


Shall  I  not  sing  of  thee,  beloved  ? 

My  beautiful !  my  pride  ! 
Thou  that  towerest  in  thy  queenly  grace, 

By  the  tributary  tide. 

There,  swan-like  crestest  thou  the  waves 
That  enamoured  round  thee  swell — 

Fairer  than  Aphrodite,  couched 
On  her  foam-wreathed  ocean-shell ! 

Oh!  ever,  'mid  this  restless  hum 

Resounding  from  the  street. 
Of  the  thronging,  hurrying  multitude, 

And  the  tread  of  stranger  feet — 

My  heart  turns  back  to  thee — mine  own! 

My  beautiful !  my  pride  ! 
With  thought  of  thy  free  ocean-wind. 

And  the  clasping,  fond  old  tide — 

With  all  thy  kindred  household  smokes, 

Upwreathing  far  away ; 
And  the  merry  bells  that  pealed  as  now 

On  my  grandsire's  wedding-day — 

To  those  green  graves  and  truthful  hearts, 

0,  city  by  the  sea ! 
My  heritage,  and  priceless  dower, 

My  beautiful!  in  thee. 

21 


MARY  E.  HEWITT. 


OSCEOLA  SIGNING  THE  TREATY. 

Stern  in  the  white  man's  council-hall, 
'Mid  his  red  brethren  of  the  wood, 

While  fearless  flashed  his  eye  on  all, 
The  chieftain  Osceola  stood — 

And  fast  the  words  that  keenly  stung 

Like  arrows  hurtled  from  his  tongue, 

"  Brothers !"  he  said,  "  and  ye  are  come 
To  sign  the  white  man's  treaty  here, — 

To  yield  to  him  our  forest  home. 
And  he  will  give  us  lands  and  deer 

Beyond  the  western  prairie  flowers. 

For  these  broad  hunting-grounds  of  ours. 

"  The  pale  face  is  a  singing-bird ! 

Hungry  and  crafty  as  the  kite  — 
And  ye  his  cunning  song  have  heard. 

Till  like  his  cheek  your  hearts  are  white 
Till  for  his  fire-drink  and  his  gold, 
Your  fathers'  bones  their  sons  have  sold! 

"  And  ye,  the  strong  and  pale  of  face. 
Have  bought  the  Indian's  hunting-ground 

Bought  his  time-honoured  burial-place, 
With  little  gold  and  many  a  wound — 

Yea — bought  his  right  with  hand  of  mail ! 

And  with  your  bloodhounds  on  the  trail. 


MARY  E.  HEWITT. 


"You  drive  him  from  the  evergledes, 

Beyond  the  Mississippi's  flow, 
And  with  your  rifles  and  your  blades 

You  hunt  him  like  the  bufl^alo  — 
Till  turns  he,  goaded,  maddened,  back. 
To  strike  the  foe  upon  the  track ! 

"Let  the  white  chieftains  pause,  and  hear 
The  answer  of  the  Seminole:  — 

The  red  man  is  a  foe  to  fear — 

He  will  not  sign  yon  faithless  scroll. 

Nor  yield  to  you  the  lands  ye  prize  — 

The  war-belt  on  your  pathway  lies !" 

Leapt  from  its  wampum  band  the  glaive, 
As  from  the  bent  bow  leaps  the  shaft. 

And  fierce  the  tempered  steel  he  drave 

Through  board  and  parchment,  to  the  haft; 

"And  thus,"  he  said,  with  eye  of  flame — 

"  Thus  Osceola  signs  your  claim !" 


THE  SUNFLOWER  TO  THE  SUN. 

Hymettus'  bees  are  out  on  filmy  wing, 

Dim  Phosphor  slowly  fades  adown  the  west, 

And  Earth  awakes.    Shine  on  me,  oh,  my  king! 
For  I  with  dew  am  laden  and  oppressed. 


162 


MARY  E.  HEWITT. 


Long  through  the  misty  clouds  of  morning  gray, 

The  flowers  have  watched  to  hail  thee  from  yon  sea — 

Sad  Asphodel,  that  pines  to  meet  thy  ray. 
And  Juno's  roses,  pale  for  love  of  thee. 

Perchance  thou  dalliest  with  the  Morning  Hour, 
Whose  blush  is  reddening  now  the  Eastern  wave ; 

Or  to  the  cloud  for  ever  leav'st  thy  Flower, 
Wiled  by  the  glance  white-footed  Thetis  gave. 

I  was  a  proud  Chaldean  monarch's  child  !* 

Euphrates'  waters  told  me  I  was  fair — 
And  thou,  Thessalia's  shepherd,  on  me  smiled. 

And  likened  to  thine  own  my  amber  hair. 

Thou  art  my  life !  sustainer  of  my  spirit ! 

Leave  me  not  then  in  darkness  here  to  pine  — 
Other  hearts  love  thee,  yet  do  they  inherit 

A  passionate  devotedness  like  mine  ? 

But  lo  !  thou  lift'st  thy  shield  o'er  yonder  tide  ! 

The  gray  clouds  fly  before  the  conquering  Sun  — 
Thou,  like  a  monarch,  up  the  heavens  dost  ride. 

And  joy  !  thou  beam'st  on  me.  Celestial  one  ! 

On  me,  thy  worshipper  !  thy  poor  Parsee  ! 

Whose  brow  adoring  types  thy  face  divine — 
God  of  my  burning  heart's  idolatry. 

Take  root  like  me,  or  give  me  life  like  thine ! 

*  Clytia,  daughter  of  Orchamus,  King  of  Babylon,  was  beloved  by 
Apollo — but  the  god  deserting  her,  she  pined  away  with  continually  gazing 
on  the  sun,  and  was  changed  to  the  flower  denominated  from  him,  which 
turns  as  he  moves,  to  look  at  his  light. 


LUCY  HOOPER. 


Miss  Hooper  was  a  native  of  Newburyport,  Massachusetts,  but  resided 
for  a  number  of  years  in  Broolilyn,  Long  Island.  In  1840  she  published 
a  volume  of  prose  articles  entitled  "  Scenes  from  Real  Life,"  and  ia  1841, 
but  a  few  weeks  before  her  decease,  "  The  Poetry  of  Flowers."  She  died 
at  the  age  of  twenty-five. 


THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HERODIAS. 

Mother  !  I  bring  thy  gift ; 
Take  from  my  hand  the  dreaded  boon — I  pray, 
Take  it ;  the  still,  pale  sorrow  of  the  face 
Hath  left  upon  my  soul  its  living  trace, 

Never  to  pass  away, 
Since  from  these  lips  one  word  of  idle  breath, 
Blanched  that  calm  face — oh!  mother,  this  is  death! 

What  is  it  that  I  see 

From  all  the  pure  and  settled  features  gleaming  ? 
Reproach!  reproach!  My  dreams  are  strange  and  wild. 
Mother  !  hadst  thou  no  pity  on  thy  child  ? 

Lo  !  a  celestial  smile  seems  softly  beaming 
On  the  hushed  lips — my  mother,  canst  thou  brook 
Longer  upon  thy  victim's  face  to  look  ? 

Alas !  at  yestermorn 
My  heart  was  light,  and  to  the  viol's  sound 


LUCY  HOOPER. 

I  gaily  danced,  while  crowned  with  summer  flowers, 
And  swiftly  by  me  sped  the  flying  hours, 

And  all  was  joy  around ;  — 
Not  death  !  Oh  !  mother,  could  I  say  thee  nay  ? 
Take  from  thy  daughter's  hand  thy  boon  away ! 

Take  i^ !  my  heart  is  sad, 
And  the  pure  forehead  hath  an  icy  chill ; 
I  dare  not  touch  it,  for  avenging  Heaven 
Hath  shuddering  visions  to  my  fancy  given ; 

And  the  pale  face  appals  me,  cold  and  still. 
With  the  closed  lips  !  Oh  !  tell  me,  could  I  know 
That  the  pale  features  of  the  dead  were  so  ? 

I  may  not  turn  away 
From  the  charmed  brow ;  and  I  have  heard  his  name 
Even  as  a  prophet  by  his  people  spoken ; 
And  that  high  brow  in  death  bears  seal  and  token 

Of  one  whose  words  were  flame;  — 
Oh !  Holy  Teacher !  couldst  thou  rise  and  live. 
Would  not  these  hushed  lips  whisper,  "  I  forgive !" 

Away  with  lute  and  harp — 

With  the  glad  heart  for  ever,  and  the  dance ! 
Never  again  shall  tabret  sound  for  me  ! 
Oh !  fearful  mother !  I  have  brought  to  thee 

The  silent  dead,  with  his  rebuking  glance, 
And  the  crushed  heart  of  one,  to  whom  are  given 
Wild  dreams  of  judgment  and  otfended  Heaven ! 


LUCY  HOOPER. 


LAST  HOURS  OF  A  YOUNG  POETESS. 

Throw  up  the  window !  that  the  earnest  eyes 
Of  the  young  devotee  at  Nature's  shrine, 
May  catch  a  last  glimpse  of  this  breathing  world 
From  which  she  is  removing. 

Men  will  say 
This  is  an  early  death,  and  they  will  write 
The  record  of  her  few  and  changeful  years 
With  wonder  on  the  marble,  and  then  turn 
Away  with  thoughtful  brows  from  the  green  sod, 
Yet  pass  to  daily  business,  for  the  griefs 
That  press  on  busy  spirits,  may  not  turn 
Their  steps  aside  from  the  worn  paths  of  life. 
Or  bear  upon  the  memory,  when  the  quick 
And  selfish  course  of  daily  care  sweeps  by. 
Yet,  when  they  speak  of  that  lost  one,  't  will  be 
With  tones  of  passionate  marvel,  for  they  watched 
Her  bright  career  as  ye  would  watch  a  star 
Of  dazzling  brilliancy,  and  mourn  to  see 
Its  glory  quenched,  and  wonder  while  ye  mourned. 
How  the  thick  pall  of  darkness  could  be  thrown 
O'er  such  a  radiant  thing. 

Is  this  the  end 
Of  all  thy  glorious  visions,  young  Estelle  ? 
Hath  thy  last  hour  drawn  on,  and  will  thy  life 
Pass  by  as  quickly  as  the  perfumed  breath 
Of  some  fair  flower  upon  the  Zephyr's  wings  ? 


LUCY  HOOPER. 


And  will  they  lay  thee  in  the  quiet  grave, 
And  never  know  how  fervently  thy  heart 
Panted  for  its  repose  ? 

Oh !  let  the  peace 
Of  this  sweet  hour  be  hers !  let  her  gaze  forth 
Now  on  the  face  of  Nature  for  the  last, 
While  the  bright  sunbeam  trembles  in  the  air 
Of  the  meek  coming  twilight !  it  will  soothe 
Her  spirit  as  a  spell,  and  waken  up 
Impassioned  thoughts,  and  kindle  burning  dreams, 
And  call  back  glorious  visions. 

Marvel  not 
To  see  her  colour  pass,  and  view  the  tears 
Fast  gathering  to  her  eyes,  and  see  her  bend 
In  very  weakness  at  ihe  fearful  shrine 
Of  memory,  when  the  glory  of  the  past 
Is  gone  for  ever. 

Gaze  not  on  her  now  : 
Her  spirit  is  a  delicate  instrument, 
Nor  can  ye  know  its  measure. 

How  unlike 
That  wearied  one  to  the  bright,  gifted  girl. 
Who  knelt  a  worshipper  at  the  deep  shrine 
Of  Poetry ;  and  'mid  the  fairest  things 
Pined  for  lone  solitude  to  read  the  clouds 
With  none  to  watch  her,  and  dream  pleasant  things 
Of  after  life,  and  see  in  every  flower 
The  mysteries  of  Nature,  and  behold 
In  every  star  the  herald  and  the  sign 
Of  immortality,  till  she  almost  shrank 


LUCY  HOOPER. 

To  feel  the  secret  and  expanding  might 
Of  her  own  mind,  and  thus  amid  the  flowers 
Of  a  glad  home  grew  beautiful. — Away 
With  praises  upon  Time !  with  hollow  tones 
That  tell  the  blessedness  of  after  years ! 
They  take  the  fragrance  from  the  soul,  they  rob 
Life  of  its  gloss,  its  poetry,  its  charm. 
Till  the  heart  sickens,  and  the  mental  wing 
Droops  wearily ;  and  thus  it  was  with  her. 
The  gifted  and  the  lovely.    Oh !  how  much 
The  world  will  envy  those  whose  hearts  are  filled 
With  secret  and  unchanging  grief,  if  Fame 
Or  outward  splendour  gilds  them ! 

Who  among 

The  throngs  that  sung  thy  praises,  young  Estelle, 
Or  crowned  thy  brow  with  laurels,  ever  recked 
That  wearier  of  thy  chaplet  than  the  slave 
May  be  with  daily  toil,  thy  hand  would  cast 
The  laurel  by  with  loathing,  but  the  pride 
Of  woman's  heart  withheld  thee ! 

Oh !  how  praise 
Falls  on  the  sorrowing  mind !  how  cold  the  voice 
Of  Flattery,  when  the  spirit  is  bowed  down 
Before  its  mockery,  and  the  heart  is  sick ; 
Praise  for  the  gift  of  genius,  for  the  grace 
Of  outward  form,  when  the  soul  pines  to  hear 
One  kindly  tone  and  true  ! 

What  bitter  jest 
It  maketh  of  the  enthusiast,  to  whom 
One  star  alone  can  shine,  one  voice  be  heard 

22 


LUCY  HOOPER. 


In  tones  of  blessedness,  to  know,  that  crowds 
Of  Earth's  light-hearted  ones  are  treasuring  up 
Against  their  day  of  sorrow,  the  deep  words 
Of  wretchedness  and  misery  which  burst 
From  an  o'erburdened  spirit,  and  that  minds 
Which  may  not  rise  to  Heaven  on  the  wings 
Of  an  inspired  fancy,  yet  can  list 
With  raptured  ear,  to  the  ethereal  dreams 
Of  a  high-soaring  genius. 

For  this  end 

Didst  thou  seek  Fame,  Estelle ;  and  hast  thou  breathed 

The  atmosphere  of  poetry,  till  life 

With  its  dull  toil  grew  wearisome  and  lone  ? 

****** 

Her  brow  grew  quickly  pale — and  murmured  words 

That  not  in  life  dwelt  on  that  gentle  lip 

Are  spoken  in  the  recklessness  of  death. 

They  tell  of  early  dreams — of  cherished  hopes 

That  faded  into  bitterness,  ere  Fame 

Became  the  spirit's  idol — of  lost  tones 

Of  music — and  of  well-remembered  words 

That  thrill  the  spirit  yet. 

Again  it  comes, 
That  half-reproachful  voice  that  she  hath  spent 
Her  life  at  Passion's  shrine,  and  patient  there 
Hath  sacrificed,  and  offered  incense  to 
An  absent  idol — that  she  might  not  see 
Even  in  death — and  then  again  the  strength 
Of  a  high  soul  sustains  her,  and  she  joys, 


LUCY  HOOPER. 


169 


Yea,  triumphs  in  her  fame,  that  he  may  hear 
Her  name  with  honour,  when  the  dark  shades  fall 
Around  her,  and  she  sleeps  in  still  repose ; 
If  some  faint  tone  should  reach  him  at  the  last 
Of  her  devotedness,  he  will  not  spurn 
The  memory  from  him,  but  his  soul  may  thrill 
To  think  of  her,  the  fervent-hearted  girl, 
Who  turned  from  flattering  tones,  and  idly  cast 
The  treasures  of  her  spirit  on  the  winds, 
And  found  no  answering  voice  ! 

Then  prayed  for  death, 
Since  Life's  sweet  spells  had  vanished,  and  her  hopes 
Had  melted  in  thin  air,  and  laying  down 
Her  head  upon  her  pillow,  sought  her  rest. 
And  thought  to  meet  him  in  the  land  of  dreams ! 


OSCEOLA. 

Not  on  the  battle-field, 
As  when  thy  thousand  warriors  joyed  to  meet  thee, 

Sounding  the  fierce  war-cry. 

Leading  them  forth  to  die — 
Not  thus,  not  thus  we  greet  thee. 


But  in  a  hostile  camp. 
Lonely  amidst  thy  foes — 


170 


LUCY  HOOPER. 


Thine  arrows  spent, 
Thy  brow  unbent, 
Yet  wearing  record  of  thy  people's  woes. 


Chief!  for  thy  memories  now. 
While  the  tall  palm  against  this  quiet  sky 

Her  branches  waves, 

And  the  soft  river  laves 
The  green  and  flower-crowned  banks  it  wanders  by; 

While  in  this  golden  sun 
The  burnished  rifle  gleameth  with  strange  light, 

And  sword  and  spear 

Rest  harmless  here, 
Yet  flash  with  startling  radiance  on  the  sight; 


Wake  they  thy  glance  of  scorn, 
Thou  of  the  folded  arms  and  aspect  stern  ? 

Thou  of  the  deep,  low  tone,* 

For  whose  rich  music  gone, 
Kindred  and  friends  alike  may  vainly  yearn  ? 

Woe  for  the  trusting  hour! 
Oh !  kingly  stag !  no  hand  hath  brought  thee  down ; 

'Twas  with  a  patriot's  heart. 

Where  fear  usurped  no  part, 
Thou  cam'st,  a  noble  offering — and  alone ! 

*  Osceola  was  remarkable  for  a  soft  and  flute-like  voice. 


LUCY  HOOPER. 


For,  vain  yon  army's  might, 
While  for  thy  band  the  wide  plain  owned  a  tree, 
Or  the  wild-vine's  tangled  shoots 
On  the  gnarled  oak's  mossy  roots 
Their  trysting-place  might  be ! 

Woe  for  thy  hapless  fate ! 
Woe  for  thine  evil  times  and  lot,  brave  chief! 

Thy  sadly-closing  story. 

Thy  quickly-vanished  glory. 
Thy  high  but  hopeless  struggle,  brave  and  brief. 

Woe  for  the  bitter  stain 
That  from  our  country's  banner  may  not  part! 

Woe  for  the  captive — woe! 

For  bitter  pains  and  slow 
Are  his  who  dieth  of  the  fevered  heart. 

Oh,  in  that  spirit  land. 

Where  never  yet  the  oppressor's  foot  hath  passed - 
Chief!  by  those  sparklins:  streams 
Whose  beauty  mocks  our  dreams. 

May  that  high  heart  have  won  its  rest  at  last! 


LUCY  HOOPER. 


TO  A  BOY  FLYING  HIS  KITE. 

Ay,  swift  be  the  motion  and  high  the  flight 

Of  thy  beautiful  and  buoyant  kite, 

Fair  boy !  may  it  fly  far,  far  beyond 

This  earth,  that  in  darkness  hath  pined  so  long. 

Nor  stop  till  it  reaches  yonder  cloud. 

That  floats  above  as  in  beauty  proud ! 

And  deepened  thought  gathers  o'er  thy  face — 

Hath  it  found  in  pure  regions  a  dwelling-place  ? 

And  will  it  away,  and  leave  thee  there. 

To  trace  its  last  path  in  the  summer  air  ? 

A  foolish  dream — and  thy  shout  rings  free 

Its  flitting  form  again  to  see, 

While  thy  thought  turns  glad  to  the  cord  in  thy  hand. 

That  a  thing  so  wild  is  at  thy  command ! 

Blithe,  gladsome  boy  !  upon  thy  brow 

Lies  childhood's  pride  —  on  thy  cheek  its  glow ; 

And  I  love,  as  I  look  on  thy  rising  kite. 

To  think  it  betokens  thy  spirit's  flight, 

Which  must  sink  'neath  the  touch  of  care  and  pain, 

Like  thy  kite,  but  to  rise  and  to  soar  again ! 


EMILY  JUDSON, 


(FANNY  FORRESTER.) 

Mrs.  Judson,  whose  maiden  name  was  Chubbuck,  is  a  native  of  New 
York  state,  and  is  principally  known  as  a  writer  of  sparkling  and  graceful 
prose.  She  contributed,  during  the  years  1844  and  1845,  to  most  of  our 
Magazines,  and  in  1846  was  married  to  Dr,  Judson,  the  apostle  of  the 
Burman  Mission;  almost  immediately  leaving  home  and  country  for  a  life 
residence  in  the  scene  of  her  husband's  labours — Maulmain,  Her  poems 
are  graceful,  unpremeditated  effusions,  that  come  from  the  heart,  and  as 
such,  are  loved  by  all  who  are  familiar  with  them. 

NOT  A  POET. 

I  AM  a  little  maiden, 

Who  fain  would  touch  the  lyre ; 
But  my  poor  fingers  ever 

Bring  discord  from  the  wire. 
'Tis  strange  I'm  not  a  poet; 

There 's  music  in  my  heart ; 
Some  mystery  must  linger 

About  this  angel  art. 

I 'm  told  that  joyous  spirits, 

Untouched  by  grief  or  care, 
In  mystery  so  holy 

Are  all  too  light  to  share. 
My  heart  is  very  gladsome ; 

But  there 's  a  corner  deep. 


EMILY  JUDSON. 


Where  many  a  shadow  nestles, 
And  future  sorrows  sleep. 

I  hope  they  '11  not  awaken 

As  yet  for  many  a  year ; 
There 's  not  on  earth  a  jewel 

That's  worth  one  grief-born  tear. 
Long  may  the  heart  be  silent, 

If  sorrow's  touch  alone, 
Upon  the  chords  descending, 

Has  power  to  wake  its  tone. 

I 'd  never  be  a  poet. 

My  bounding  heart  to  hush. 
And  lay  down  at  the  altar. 

For  sorrow's  foot  to  crush. 
Ah,  no !  I  '11  gather  sunshine. 

For  coming  evening's  hours; 
And  while  the  spring-time  lingers 

I'll  garner  up  its  flowers. 

I  fain  would  learn  the  music 

Of  those  who  dwell  in  Heaven; 
For  woe-tuned  harp  was  never 

To  seraph  fingers  given. 
But  I  will  strive  no  longer 

To  waste  my  heartfelt  mirth ; 
I  will  mind  me  that  the  gifted 

Are  the  stricken  ones  of  earth. 


EMILY  JUDSON. 


175 


CLINGING  TO  EARTH. 

Oh,  do  not  let  me  die !  the  earth  is  bright, 
And  I  am  earthly,  so  I  love  it  well ;  — 

True,  Heaven  is  holier,  all  replete  with  light ; 
But  I  am  frail,  and  with  frail  things  would  dwell, 

I  cannot  die ;  the  flowers  of  earthly  love 
Shed  their  rich  fragrance  on  a  kindred  heart ; 

There  may  be  purer,  brighter  ones  above, 

Yet  with  these  flowers  'twould  be  too  hard  to  part. 

I  dream  of  Heaven,  and  well  I  love  these  dreams ; 

They  scatter  sunlight  on  my  varying  way ; 
But  'mid  the  clouds  of  earth  are  priceless  gleams 

Of  brightness ;  and  on  earth,  oh,  let  me  stay ! 

It  is  not  that  my  lot  is  void  of  gloom, 

That  sadness  never  circles  round  my  heart ; 

Nor  that  I  fear  the  darkness  of  the  tomb. 
That  I  would  never  from  the  earth  depart. 

'T  is  that  I  love  the  world — its  cares,  its  sorrows. 
Its  bounding  hopes,  its  feelings  fresh  and  warm. 

Each  cloud  it  wears,  and  every  light  it  borrows. 
Loves,  wishes,  fears,  the  sunshine  and  the  storm — 

I  love  them  all ;  but  closer  still  the  loving 

Twine  with  my  being's  chords,  and  make  my  life ; 

23 


EMILY  JUDSON. 


And  while  within  this  sunlight  I  am  moving, 
I  well  can  bide  the  storms  of  worldly  strife. 

Then  do  not  let  me  die !  for  earth  is  bright, 
And  I  am  earthly,  so  I  love  it  well ; 

Heaven  is  a  land  of  holiness  and  light ; 

Yet  I  am  frail,  and  with  the  frail  would  dwell. 


ASPIRING  TO  HEAVEN. 

Ay,  let  me  die !  Am  I  of  spirit-birth. 
And  shall  I  linger  here  where  spirits  fell. 

Loving  the  stain  they  cast  on  all  of  earth  ? 

Oh,  make  me  pure,  with  pure  ones  e'er  to  dwell ! 

'T  is  sweet  to  die.    The  flowers  of  earthly  love 
(Fair,  frail  spring-blossoms)  early  droop  and  die ; 

But  all  their  fragrance  is  exhaled  above, 
Upon  our  spirits  ever  more  to  lie. 

Life  is  a  dream — a  bright,  but  fleeting  dream, 
I  can  but  love ;  but  then  my  soul  awakes. 

And  from  the  mist  of  earthliness,  a  gleam 
Of  holy  light,  of  truth  immortal,  breaks. 

I  shrink  not  from  the  shadows  sorrow  flings 
Across  my  pathway ;  nor  from  cares  that  rise 

In  every  foot-print ;  for  each  shadow  brings 
Sunshine  and  rainbow,  as  it  glooms  and  flies. 


EMILY  JUDSON. 


177 


But  Heaven  is  dearer.    There  I  have  my  treasure ; 

There  angels  fold  in  love  their  snowy  wings ; 
There  sainted  lips  chant  in  celestial  measure ; 

And  spirit-fingers  stray  o'er  heaven-wrought  strings 

There  loving  eyes  are  to  the  portals  straying ; 

There  arms  extend  a  wanderer  to  fold ; 
There  waits  a  dearer,  holier  One,  arraying 

His  own  in  spotless  robes  and  crowns  of  gold. 

Then  let  me  die !    My  spirit  longs  for  Heaven, 

In  that  pure  bosom  ever  more  to  rest ; 
But  if  to  labour  longer  here  be  given, 

"  Father,  thy  will  be  done,"  and  I  am  blest. 


MY  BIRD. 

Ere  last  year's  moon  had  left  the  sky, 
A  birdling  sought  my  Indian  nest, 

And  folded,  oh,  so  lovingly, 

Her  tiny  wings  upon  my  breast. 

From  morn  till  evening's  purple  tinge, 
In  winsome  helplessness  she  lies. 

Two  rose-leaves,  with  a  silken  fringe. 
Shut  softly  on  her  starry  eyes. 

There 's  not  in  Ind  a  lovelier  bird ; 
Broad  earth  owns  not  a  happier  nest ; 


EMILY  JUDSON. 

Oh,  God,  thou  hast  a  fountain  stirred, 
Whose  waters  never  more  shall  rest ! 

This  beautiful,  mysterious  thing. 
This  seeming  visitant  from  Heaven, 

This  bird  with  the  immortal  wing. 
To  me — to  me.  Thy  hand  has  given. 

The  pulse  first  caught  its  tiny  stroke. 
The  blood  its  crimson  hue  from  mine ; 

This  life,  which  I  have  dared  invoke, 
Henceforth  is  parallel  with  Thine. 

A  silent  awe  is  in  my  room — 
I  tremble  with  delicious  fear ; 

The  future,  with  its  light  and  gloom, 
Time  and  Eternity,  are  here. 

Doubts — hopes,  in  eager  tumult  rise; 

Hear,  oh,  my  God !  one  earnest  prayer 
Room  for  my  bird  in  Paradise, 

And  give  her  angel  plumage  there ! 


LOUISA  SIMES. 


Miss  Simes  is  a  native  of  Portsmouth,  New  Hampshire. 

TO  ONE  AFAR. 

Go — we  have  breathed  farewell  before, 
But  never  with  such  bitter  pain ! 

For  always  hope  had  some  fresh  wreath 
To  bind  my  aching  heart  again. 

But  now — as  if  she  knew  her  buds 
Could  not  survive  to  bloom  with  me. 

She  does  not  even  break  this  cloud 
With  a  to-morrow's  brighter  ray. 

Farewell — if  in  life's  desert  path 

Should  rise  some  verdant  spots  for  me, 

Although  thou  canst  not  share  its  joy, 
Still,  I  shall  dare  to  wish  for  thee ! 

And  oh,  dear  friend,  when  hope  shall  paint 
All  things  about  thy  pathway  fair, 

'Mid  images  of  brighter  things. 
Say,  shall  I  be  reflected  there  ? 


LOUISA  SIMES. 


I  ask  it  not — but  when  dark  hours, 
Which  waiting  all,  must  come  to  thee, 

With  the  too  few  defying  change 
Give  me  a  place  in  memory ! 

For  though  my  smile  has  cheerful  blent. 
With  those  who  briefly  may  rejoice. 

Yet  deeper  sympathies  of  soul 

Are  waked,  and  chained  by  sorrow's  voice. 

Farewell — what  death  about  the  heart 
This  doubting  of  the  future  brings — 

What  mystery  this  undying  love, 

Which  strong  from  its  own  ashes  springs ! 

Oh  Thou,  who  never  spurn'st  the  gift 
Thrice  offered  on  an  earthly  shrine. 

Heavenward  this  deep  affection  lift. 
And  sanctify  it  truly  thine ! 

Yet,  let  its  pleadings,  like  the  dew 

Which  falls  upon  some  cherished  flower, 

Rich  pearls  of  blessing  gently  shed 
On  loved  ones  I  may  meet  no  more ! 


SARAH  J.  HALE. 


The  family  name  of  this  lady  was  Buell,  and  her  birth-place  Newport, 
New  Hampshire.  At  the  death  of  her  husband,  which  occurred  about 
seven  years  after  her  marriage,  being  left  with  five  children,  she  was 
thrown  upon  her  own  resources,  and,  influenced  by  a  natural  preference, 
turned  her  attention  to  literature  as  a  pursuit.  In  1828  she  took  the  edi- 
torial charge  of  the  "  Lady's  American  Magazine,"  and  continued  in  that 
capacity  for  nine  years.  In  1837  that  periodical  was  merged  into  "  Go- 
dey's  Lady's  Book,"  which  she  has  since  continued  to  edit.  Mrs.  Hale  is 
the  author  of  "  Northwood,"  a  novel  in  two  volumes,  of  "  Flora's  Inter- 
preter," "  The  Lady's  Wreath,"  besides  a  number  of  other  works,  all  of 
which  have  been  favourably  received.  She  has  recently  given  to  the 
public  a  volume,  entitled  "  Three  Hours ;  or.  The  Vigil  of  Love,  and 
other  Poems,"  containing,  we  believe,  many  of  her  best  pieces.  She  resides 
in  Philadelphia. 

IRON. 

"Truth  shall  spring  out  of  the  earth." — Psalms  Ixxxv.  11. 

As,  in  lonely  thought,  I  pondered 

On  the  marvellous  things  of  earth. 
And,  in  fancy's  dreaming,  wondered 

At  their  beauty,  power,  and  worth, 
Came,  like  words  of  prayer,  the  feeling — 

Oh!  that  God  would  make  me  know, 
Through  the  spirit's  clear  revealing — 

What,  of  all  his  works  below, 


182 


SARAH  J.  HALE. 


Is  to  man  a  boon  the  greatest, 
Brightening  on  from  age  to  age, 

Serving  truest,  earliest,  latest, 

Through  the  world's  long  pilgrimage. 

Soon  vast  mountains  rose  before  me. 

Shaggy,  desolate,  and  lone. 
Their  scarred  heads  were  threatening  o'er  me, 

Their  dark  shadows  round  me  thrown; 
Then  a  voice  from  out  the  mountains 

As  an  earthquake  shook  the  ground. 
And  like  frightened  fawns  the  fountains 

Leaping,  fled  before  the  sound ; 
And  the  Anak  oaks  bowed  lowly. 

Quivering,  aspen-like,  with  fear — 
While  the  deep  response  came  slowly. 

Or  it  must  have  crushed  mine  ear ! 

"  Iron  !  Iron  !  Iron  !"  —  crashing 

Like  the  battle-axe  and  shield ; 
Or  the  sword  on  helmet  clashing. 

Through  a  bloody  battle-field : 
"  Iron  !  Iron  !  Iron  !" — rolling 

Like  the  far-otf  cannon's  boom; 
Or  the  death-knell,  slowly  tolling 

Through  a  dungeon's  charnel  gloom ! 
"Iron!  Iron!  Iron!" — swinging 

Like  the  summer  winds  at  play; 
Or  as  bells  of  Time  were  ringing 

In  the  blest  Millennial  Day! 


SARAH  J.  HALE. 


Then  the  clouds  of  ancient  fable 

Cleared  away  before  mine  eyes ; 
Truth  could  tread  a  footing  stable 

O'er  the  gulf  of  mysteries! 
Words,  the  prophet  bards  had  uttered. 

Signs,  the  oracle  foretold, 
Spells,  the  wierd-like  Sibyl  muttered 

Through  the  twilight  days  of  old, 
Rightly  read,  beneath  the  splendour 

Shining  now  on  history's  page, 
All  their  faithful  witness  render — 

All  portend  a  better  age. 

Sisyphus,  for  ever  toiling, 

Was  the  type  of  toiling  men, 
While  the  stone  of  power,  recoiling, 

Crushed  them  back  to  earth  again! 
Stern  Prometheus,  bound  and  bleeding, 

Imaged  man  in  mental  chain. 
While  the  vultures,  on  him  feeding. 

Were  the  passions'  vengeful  reign; 
Still  a  ray  of  mercy  tarried 

On  the  cloud,  a  white-winged  dove. 
For  this  mystic  faith  had  married 

Vulcan  to  the  Queen  of  Love ! 

Rugged  strength  and  radiant  beauty — 
These  were  one  in  Nature's  plan; 

Humble  toil  and  heavenward  duty — 
These  will  form  the  perfect  man! 


SARAH  J.  HALE. 


Darkly  was  this  doctrine  taught  us 

By  the  gods  of  heathendom; 
But  the  living  light  was  brought  us 

When  the  gospel  morn  had  come ! 
How  the  glorious  change,  expected, 

Could  be  wrought,  was  then  made  free ; 
Of  the  earthly,  when  perfected. 

Rugged  Iron  forms  the  key ! 

"Truth  from  out  the  earth  shall  flourish;' 

This  the  Word  of  God  makes  known,— 
Thence  are  harvests  men  to  nourish — 

There  let  Iron's  power  be  shown. 
Of  the  swords,  from  slaughter  gory, 

Ploughshares  forge  to  break  the  soil ;  — 
Then  will  Mind  attain  its  glory. 

Then  will  Labour  reap  the  spoil, — 
Error  cease  the  soul  to  wilder, 

Crime  be  checked  by  simple  good, 
As  the  little  coral  builder 

Forces  back  the  furious  flood. 

While  our  faith  in  good  grows  stronger, 

Means  of  greater  good  increase ; 
Iron,  slave  of  war  no  longer. 

Leads  the  onward  march  of  peace; 
Still  new  modes  of  service  finding, 

Ocean,  earth,  and  air  it  moves, 
And  the  distant  nations  binding. 

Like  the  kindred  tie  it  proves; 


SARAH  J.  HALE. 


With  its  Atlas-shoulder  sharing 
Loads  of  human  toil  and  care; 

On  its  wing  of  lightning  bearing 

Thought's  swift  mission  through  the  air 

As  the  rivers,  furthest  flowing, 

In  the  highest  hills  have  birth; 
As  the  banyan,  broadest  growing, 

Oftenest  bows  its  head  to  earth, — 
So  the  noblest  minds  press  onward. 

Channels  far  of  good  to  trace ; 
So  the  largest  hearts  bend  downward. 

Circling  all  the  human  race; 
Thus,  by  Iron's  aid,  pursuing 

Through  the  earth  their  plans  of  love, 
Men  our  Father's  will  are  doing 

Here,  as  angels  do  above  ! 


I  SING  TO  HIM. 

I  SING  to  him!    I  dream  he  hears 

The  song  he  used  to  love. 
And  oft  that  blessed  fancy  cheers 

And  bears  my  thoughts  above. 
Ye  say  'tis  idle  thus  to  dream — 

But  why  believe  it  so  ? 
It  is  the  spirit's  meteor  gleam 

To  soothe  the  pang  of  woe. 


SARAH  J  HALE. 


Love  gives  to  Nature's  voice  a  tone 

That  true  hearts  understand, — 
The  sky,  the  earth,  the  forest  lone 

Are  peopled  by  his  wand; 
Sweet  fancies  all  our  pulses  thrill 

While  gazing  on  a  flower, 
And  from  the  gently-whispering  rill 

Is  heard  the  words  of  power. 

I  breathe  the  dear  and  cherished  name. 

And  long-lost  scenes  arise ; 
Life's  glowing  landscape  spreads  the  same 

The  same  Hope's  kindling  skies;  — 
The  violet  bank,  the  moss-fringed  seat 

Beneath  the  drooping  tree. 
The  clock  that  chimed  the  hour  to  meet, 

My  buried  love,  with  thee  — 

0,  these  are  all  before  me,  when 

In  Fancy's  realms  I  rove ; 
Why  urge  me  to  the  world  again  ? 

Why  say  the  ties  of  love. 
That  death's  cold,  cruel  grasp  has  riven. 

Unite  no  more  below  ? 
I'll  sing  to  him, — for  though  in  heaven, 

He  surely  heeds  my  woe ! 


SAKAH  J.  HALE. 


THE  MISSISSIPPI. 

Monarch  of  Rivers  in  the  wide  domain 
Where  Freedom  writes  her  signature  in  stars, 
And  bids  her  Eagle  bear  the  blazing  scroll 
To  usher  in  the  reign  of  peace  and  love, 
Thou  mighty  Mississippi ! — may  my  song 
Swell  with  thy  power,  and  though  an  humble  rill, 
Roll,  like  thy  current,  through  the  sea  of  Time, 
Bearing  thy  name,  as  tribute  from  my  soul 
Of  fervent  gratitude  and  holy  praise 
To  Him  who  poured  thy  multitude  of  waves. 

Shadowed  beneath  those  awful  piles  of  stone. 
Where  Liberty  has  found  a  Pisgah  height, 
O'erlooking  all  the  Land  she  loves  to  bless. 
The  jagged  rocks  and  icy  towers  her  guard. 
Whose  splintered  summits  seize  the  warring  clouds. 
And  roll  them,  broken,  like  a  host  o'erthrown, 
Adown  the  Mountains'  side,  scattering  their  wealth 
Of  powdered  pearl  and  liquid  diamond  drops, — 
There  is  thy  Source, — great  River  of  the  West ! 

Slowly,  like  youthful  Titan  gathering  strength 
To  war  with  heaven  and  win  himself  a  name, 
The  stream  moves  onward  through  the  dark  ravines. 
Rending  the  roots  of  over-arching  trees 
To  form  its  narrow  channel,  where  the  star. 
That  fain  would  bathe  its  beauty  in  the  wave, 


188 


SARAH  J.  HALE. 


Like  lover's  glance  steals,  trembling,  through  the  leaves 
That  veil  the  waters  with  a  vestal's  care ;  — 
And  few  of  human  form  have  ventured  there, 
Save  the  swart  savage  in  his  bark  canoe. 

But  now  it  deepens,  struggles,  rushes  on ; 
Like  goaded  war-horse,  bounding  o'er  the  foe, 
It  clears  the  rocks  it  may  not  spurn  aside, 
Leaping,  as  Curtius  leaped,  adown  the  gulf. 
And  rising,  like  Antseus,  from  the  fall, 
Its  course  majestic  through  the  Land  pursues. 
And  the  broad  River  o'er  the  Valley  reigns ! 

It  reigns  alone.    The  tributary  streams 
Are  humble  vassals,  yielding  to  its  sway. 
And  when  the  wild  Missouri  fain  would  join 
A  rival  in  the  race — as  Jacob  seized 
On  his  red  brother's  birth-right,  even  so 
The  swelling  Mississippi  grasps  that  wave, 
And,  rebaptizing,  makes  the  waters  one. 

It  reigns  alone — and  Earth  the  sceptre  feels  :  — 
Her  ancient  trees  are  bowed  beneath  the  wave. 
Or,  rent  like  reeds  before  the  whirlwind's  swoop, 
Toss  on  the  bosom  of  the  maddened  flood,' 
A  floating  forest,  till  the  waters,  calmed, 
Like  slumbering  anaconda  gorged  with  prey. 
Open  a  haven  to  the  moving  mass. 
Or  form  an  island  in  the  dark  abyss. 


SARAH  J.  HALE. 


189 


It  reigns  alone.    Old  Nile  would  ne'er  bedew 

The  Lands  it  blesses  with  its  fertile  tide. 

Even  sacred  Ganges  joined  with  Egypt's  flood 

Would  shrink  beside  this  wonder  of  the  West ! 

Ay,  gather  Europe's  royal  Rivers  all — 

The  snow-swelled  Neva,  with  an  Empire's  weight 

On  her  broad  breast,  she  yet  may  overwhelm ; 

Dark  Danube,  hurrying,  as  by  foe  pursued. 

Through  shaggy  forests  and  from  palace  walls. 

To  hide  its  terrors  in  a  sea  of  gloom ; 

The  castled  Rhine,  whose  vine-crowned  waters  flow. 

The  fount  of  fable  and  the  source  of  song ; 

The  rushing  Rhone,  in  whose  cerulean  depths 

The  loving  sky  seems  wedded  with  the  wave ; 

The  yellow  Tiber,  choked  with  Roman  spoils, 

A  dying  miser  shrinking  'neath  his  gold ; 

And  Seine,  where  Fashion  glasses  fairest  forms ; 

And  Thames,  that  bears  the  riches  of  the  world:  — 

Gather  their  waters  in  one  ocean  mass, 

— Our  Mississippi,  rolling  proudly  on. 

Would  sweep  them  from  its  path,  or  swallow  up. 

Like  Aaron's  rod,  these  streams  of  fame  and  song ! 

And  thus  the  Peoples,  from  the  many  Lands, 
Where  these  old  streams  are  household  memories, 
Mingle  beside  our  River,  and  are  one  ; 
And  join  to  swell  the  strength  of  Freedom's  tide. 
That  from  the  fount  of  Truth  is  flowing  on 
To  sweep  Earth's  thousand  tyrannies  away. 


SARAH  J.  HALE. 


How  wise — how  wonderful  the  works  of  God ! 
And,  hallowed  by  His  goodness,  all  are  good. 
The  creeping  glow-worm — the  careering  sun 
Are  kindled  from  the  effluence  of  His  light. 
The  ocean  and  the  acorn-cup  are  filled 
By  gushings  from  the  fountain  of  His  love. 
He  poured  the  Mississippi's  torrent  forth, 
And  heaved  its  tide  above  the  trembling  land, — 
Grand  type  how  Freedom  lifts  the  Citizen 
Above  the  subject  masses  of  the  world — 
And  marked  the  limits  it  may  never  pass. 
Trust  in  His  promises,  and  bless  His  power, 
Ye  dwellers  on  its  banks,  and  be  at  peace. 

And  ye,  whose  way  is  on  this  warrior  wave, 
When  the  swoln  waters  heave  with  ocean's  might, 
And  storms  and  darkness  close  the  gate  of  heaven. 
And  the  frail  bark,  fire-driven,  bounds  quivering  on, 
As  though  it  rent  the  iron  shroud  of  night. 
And  struggled  with  the  demons  of  the  flood — 
Fear  nothing !    He  who  shields  the  folded  flower, 
When  tempests  rage,  is  ever  present  here. 
Lean  on  "  Our  Father's"  breast  in  faith  and  prayer, 
And  sleep, — His  arm  of  love  is  strong  to  save. 

Great  Source  of  Being,  Beauty,  Light  and  Love ! 
Creator !  Lord  !  the  waters  worship  thee  ! 
Ere  thy  creative  smile  had  sown  the  flowers ; 
Ere  the  glad  hills  leaped  upward,  or  the  earth, 


SARAH  J.  HALE. 


191 


With  swelling  bosom  waited  for  her  child ; 
Before  eternal  Love  had  lit  the  sun, 
Or  Time  had  traced  its  dial-plate  in  stars, 
The  joyful  anthem,  of  the  waters  flowed ;  — 
And  Chaos  like  a  frightened  felon  fled. 
While  on  the  Deep  the  Holy  Spirit  moved. 

And  evermore  the  Deep  has  worshipped  God; 
And  Bards  and  Prophets  tune  their  mystic  lyres 
While  listening  to  the  music  of  the  floods. 
Oh !  could  I  catch  this  harmony  of  sounds, 
As  borne  on  dewy  wings  they  float  to  heaven. 
And  blend  their  meaning  with  my  closing  strain ! 

Hark !  as  a  reed-harp  thrilled  by  whispering  winds, 

Or  Naiad  murmurs  from  a  pearl-lipped  shell, 

It  comes — the  melody  of  many  waves  ! 

And  loud,  with  Freedom's  world-awaking  note, 

The  deep-toned  Mississippi  leads  the  choir, 

— The  pure  sweet  Fountains  chant  of  heavenly  hope ; 

The  chorus  of  the  Rills  is  household  love ; 

The  Rivers  roll  their  song  of  social  joy ; 

And  Ocean's  organ  voice  is  sounding  forth 

The  Hymn  of  Universal  Brotherhood  ! 

25 


SARAH  J.  HALE. 


THE  FOUR-LEAVED  CLOVER. 

"  There's  wisdom  in  the  grass,  its  teachings  would  we  heed." 

There  knelt  beneath  the  tulip  tree 

A  maiden  fair  and  young; 
The  flowers  o'erhead  bloomed  gorgeously, 

As  though  by  rainbows  flung, 
And  all  around  were  daisies  bright. 
And  pansies  with  their  eyes  of  light — 
Like  gold  the  sun-kissed  crocus  shone. 
With  beauty's  smiles  the  earth  seemed  strown. 
And  Love's  warm  incense  filled  the  air, 
While  the  fair  girl  was  kneeling  there. 

In  vain  the  flowers  may  woo  arouiid, — 

Their  charms  she  does  not  see. 
For  she  a  dearer  prize  has  found 

Beneath  the  tulip  tree — 
A  little  four-leaved  clover,  green 
As  robes  that  grace  the  fairy  queen, 
And  fresh  as  hopes  of  early  youth. 
When  life  is  love,  and  love  is  truth; 
— A  talisman  of  constant  love, 
This  humble  clover  sure  will  prove ! 

And  on  her  heart,  that  gentle  maid 

The  severed  leaves  has  pressed. 
Which  through  the  coming  night's  dark  shade 

Beneath  her  cheek  will  rest; 


SARAH  J.  HALE. 


193 


Then  precious  dreams  of  one  will  rise, 
Like  Love's  own  star  in  morning  skies, 
So  sweetly  bright,  we  would  the  day 
His  glowing  chariot  might  delay  ;  — 
What  tomes  of  pure  and  tender  thought 
Those  simple  leaves  to  her  have  taught ! 

Of  old,  the  sacred  mistletoe 

The  Druid's  altar  bound; 
The  Roman  hero's  haughty  brow 

The  fadeless  laurel  crowned. — 
Dark  superstition's  sway  is  past, 
And  war's  red  star  is  waning  fast, 
Nor  mistletoe,  nor  laurel  hold 
The  mystic  language  breathed  of  old; 
For  nature's  life  no  power  can  give 
To  bid  the  false  and  selfish  live. 

But  still  the  olive-leaf  imparts. 

As  when,  dove-born,  at  first. 
It  taught  heaven's  lore  to  human  hearts. 

Its  hope,  and  joy,  and  trust ; 
Nor  deem  the  faith  from  folly  springs 
Which  innocent  enjoyment  brings — 
Better  from  earth  root  every  flower, 
Than  crush  imagination's  power, 
In  true  and  loving  minds,  to  raise 
An  Eden  for  their  coming  days. 
As  on  each  rock,  where  plants  can  cling, 

The  sunshine  will  be  shed; 


194  SARAH  J.  HALE. 

As  from  the  tiniest  star-lit  spring 

The  ocean's  depths  are  fed ; 
Thus  hopes  will  rise,  if  love's  clear  ray 
Keep  warm  and  bright  life's  rock-strewn  way; 
And  from  small,  daily  joys  distilled, 
The  heart's  deep  fount  of  peace  is  filled — 
0 !  blest  when  Fancy's  ray  is  given. 
Like  the  ethereal  spark,  from  heaven ! 


MARY  A.  H.  DODD. 


Miss  Dodd  is  a  native  of  Hartford,  Connecticut,  where  she  received  h 
education,  and  where  she  still  resides,  A  volume  of  her  poems  was  pu 
lished  in  1844. 

TWILIGHT. 

The  sunset  hues  are  fading  fast 
From  the  fair  western  sky  away, 

And  floating  clouds  which  gathered  round, 
Have  vanished  with  their  colours  gay. 


All,  save  one  streak  that  lingers  there, 

Retaining  still  a  rosy  hue, 
Bright  at  the  verge,  but  pale  above, 

Soft  blending  with  celestial  blue. 

So  lovely  were  those  brilliant  clouds 
Which  floated  in  the  evening  air, 

It  well  might  seem  that  angel  forms 

Such  fabrics  for  their  robes  would  wear. 


But,  like  the  dreams  that  Fancy  weaves. 
Their  beauty  quickly  passed  away ; 

And  where  their  gorgeous  tints  were  seen. 
Soft  twilight  reigns  with  shadows  gray. 


MARY  A.  H.  DODD. 


One  star,  one  bright  and  quiet  star, 

Kindles  its  steady  light  above. 
Over  the  hushed  and  resting  earth 

Still  watching  like  the  eye  of  love. 

The  birds  that  w^oke  such  joyous  strains. 

With  folded  pinions  seek  repose  ; 
All,  save  the  minstrel  sad  who  sings 

His  plaintive  love-lay  to  the  rose. 

The  weary  bees  have  reached  the  hive. 

Rejoicing  over  labour  done  ; 
And  blossoms  close  their  fragrant  cups. 

Which  opened  to  the  morning  sun. 

The  winds  are  hushed  that  music  made 

The  leafy-laden  boughs  between, 
And  scarce  the  lightest  zephyr's  breath 

Now  dallies  with  the  foliage  green. 

This  is  the  hour,  so  loved  by  all 

Whose  thoughts  are  lingering  with  the  past, 
When  scenes  and  forms  to  memory  dear 

Gather  around  us  dim  and  fast. 

Childhood's  bright  days,  youth's  short  romance, 
And  manhood's  dreams  of  power  and  fame, 

Again  come  back  to  cheat  the  heart 
So  changed  by  time,  yet  still  the  same. 


MARY  A.  H.  DODD. 


The  mingling  tones  of  voices  gone, 
Are  breathing  round  us  sweet  and  low, 

And  eyes  are  beaming  once  again, 
That  smiled  upon  us  long  ago. 

We  gaze  upon  those  loving  eyes, 
Which  never  coldly  turn  away ; 
.  We  clasp  the  hand  and  press  the  lip 
Of  forms  that  but  in  memory  stay. 

We  feel  the  influence  of  a  spell. 

And  wake  to  smiles  or  melt  to  tears, 

As  pass  before  the  dreaming  eye 
The  light  and  shade  of  other  years. 

Oh,  pleasant  is  the  dewy  morn  ! 

And  golden  noon  is  fair  to  see ; 
But  sweeter  far  the  closing  day, 

Dearer  the  twilight  hour  to  me. 


THE  DOVE'S  VISIT. 

Why  do  thy  pinions  their  motion  cease  ? 

Wouldst  thou  listen  to  my  sighing  ? 
Art  thou  come  with  the  olive  branch  of  peace 

Thou  dove  to  my  window  flying ! 


MARY  A.  H.  DODD. 

Thy  breast  is  white  as  a  snowy  wreath, 

And  thine  eye  is  softly  beaming ; 
Dost  thou  bear  a  message  thy  wing  beneath, 

For  maid  of  her  lover  dreaming  ? 

Has  thy  flight  been  far  ?  thy  plumage  gleams, 

Unsoiled  and  unworn  with  using : 
Thou  art  mute,  fair  dove,  but  thy  soft  eye  seems 

To  answer  my  idle  musing. 

0,  thou,  thou  hast  been  where  I  fain  would  be, 
Where  my  thoughts  are  ever  straying, 

Where  the  balmiest  breeze  of  Spring  blows  free. 
With  the  early  blossoms  playing ! 

Thou  hast  rested  on  the  casement  white, 

Which  the  lilac  boughs  are  shading, 
Where  I  greeted  the  morning's  rosy  light, 

Or  looked  on  the  sunset  fading. 

Tell  me,  thou  bird  with  the  snowy  breast ! 

Of  a  spot  beloved  for  ever, 
Of  the  pleasant  walks  which  my  steps  have  pressed, 

Where  now  they  may  linger  never. 

With  thee  would  I  gladly  hasten  there. 

If  wings  to  my  wish  were  granted, 
To  the  flowers  that  bloomed  'neath  my  mother's  care, 

And  the  trees  my  father  planted. 


MARY  A.  H.  DODD. 


199 


For  dearer  the  simplest  blossom  there, 
Its  sweets  to  the  morning  throwing, 

Than  the  choicest  flower  that  perfumes  the  air, 
In  a  kingly  garden  growing. 

Vainly  I  strive  to  restrain  the  tear. 
The  grief  like  a  spring-tide  swelling, 

When  my  thoughts  return  to  the  home  so  dear 
That  is  now  a  stranger's  dwelling. 

And  while  I  turn  me  away  to  weep, 

A  host  of  memories  waken. 
Like  the  circle  spreading  upon  the  deep. 

Or  dropped  from  the  foliage  shaken. 

Should  fate,  where  affection  clings  so  strong, 

A  heart  from  its  Eden  banish  ? 
Should  it  suffer  a  scene  to  charm  so  long 

And  then  like  a  vision  vanish  ? 

I  read  reproach  in  that  glance  of  thine. 

For  words  of  repining  spoken  ; 
When  my  brow  with  the  olive  thou  wouldst  twine, 

I  reject  the  peaceful  token. 

0,  how  can  a  heart  be  still  so  weak. 
Though  ever  for  strength  beseeching. 

That  from  each  event  would  some  lesson  seek, 
And  scorn  not  the  humblest  teaching ! 

26 


200 


MARY  A.  H.  DODD. 


Waiting,  and  trustful  like  thee,  sweet  dove, 
To  the  watchful  care  of  Heaven, — 

With  unshaken  faith  in  a  Father's  love, — 
Be  the  future  wholly  given. 

I  will  bid  my  heart's  vain  yearnings  cease ; 

I  will  hush  this  useless  sighing ; 
Thy  visit  hath  brought  to  my  spirit  peace, 

Thou  dove  to  my  window  flying ! 


JULIA  H.  SCOTT. 


The  maiden  name  of  this  lady  was  Kinney.  She  was  born  in  the  beau- 
tiful valley  of  Sheshequin,  Bradford  County,  Pennsylvania.  She  was 
married  to  Dr.  D.  L.  Scott,  and  with  him  removed  to  Towanda,  a  beauti- 
ful village  about  ten  miles  distant  from  her  birthplace,  where,  in  March 
1642,  she  died. 

I  AM  WEARY. 

I  AM  WEARY,  I  AM  WEARY — of  this  giief-o'erclouded  earth; 
Give  me  the  glorious  "Father-land,"  where  the  spirit  has  its 
birth ; 

Where  hope  is  not  a  fragile  bark,  borne  down  by  every  gale, 
Nor  love  a  word  of  fearfulness,  making  the  bright  cheek  pale 

I  AM  WEARY,  I  AM  WEARY.    The  song  of  youth  is  o'er ; 
I  hear  its  last,  faint,  dying  notes,  on  memory's  winding 
shore ; 

The  sunshine  of  a  happy  heart  is  fading  fast  away — 
Give  me  the  land  where  time  and  change  are  broken  in  their 
sway. 

I  AM  WEARY,  I  AM  WEARY.    The  cry  of  human  wrongs. 
From  hill,  and  stream,  and  distant  vale,  each  passing  breeze 
prolongs ; 


202 


JULIA  H.  SCOTT. 


I  sicken  at  the  oft-told  tale  of  sinfulness  and  strife  ; 
Give  me  the  fruit  which  bears  no  ill,  fresh  from  the  tree  of 
life. 

I  AM  WEARY,  I  AM  WEARY.    The  tics  which  bind  me  here, 
Though  bright,  and  beautiful,  and  strong,  are  garnished  o'er 
with  fear ; 

I  tremble  lest  this  treasure  love  should  centre  in  the  grave ; 
Make  me  the  first.  Most  Merciful,  death's  withering  frown  to 
brave. 

I  AM  WEARY,  I  AM  WEARY.    My  soul  in  drcams  hath  been 
To  that  bright  world  whose  glories  ne'er  unveil  to  mortal 
ken ; 

And  all  is  dimness  here  and  doubt,  earth's  charms  have  passed 
away , 

Give  me  the  land  where  sorrowing  night  is  lost  in  perfect 
day. 

I  AM  WEARY,  I  AM  WEARY.    Unbar  the  gate  of  death. 
Ere  the  impatient  blade  hath  worn  away  its  worthless  sheath ! 
Unbar  death's  gate !  Like  mountain  bird  in  dreary  cage  I 
pine, — 

Yet  not  my  will.  Most  Merciful,  not  my  frail  will,  but 

THINE  ' 


JULIA  H.  SCOTT. 


203 


MOUNTAIN  MELODIES. 

A  MOMENT  pause,  thou  wandering  breeze, 

And  touch  my  lonely  harp  again, 
Before  my  wasting  pulses  freeze. 

And  darkness  wraps  this  fevered  brain. 
Oh,  linger  yet,  but  let  each  tone 

Be  such  as  breaking  hearts  should  hear. 
As  when  some  spirit's  voice  alone 

Falls  gently  on  the  listening  ear. 

And  thou,  bright  star,  whose  quivering  beam 

Spreads  melting  o'er  the  liquid  deep. 
Oh !  gild  this  wild,  despairing  dream. 

And  leave  these  heavy  eyes  to  weep. 
For  every  hope  by  memory  blest 

Hath  perished  like  the  blighted  flower, 
And  future  years,  in  gladness  dressed. 

Were  but  the  visions  of  an  hour. 

It  is  not  meet  for  souls  like  mine 

To  dwell  with  those  of  lighter  mood ; 
Away !  in  sadness  let  me  twine 

My  wreath,  'mid  bowers  of  solitude. 
Away !  But  thou,  unchanging  star. 

Companion  of  my  rocky  cell, 
Oh,  send  thy  softer  rays  afar 

Within  these  dusky  shades  to  dwell ! 


204 


JULIA  H.  SCOTT. 


And  breathe,  ye  winds  !  there  is  a  spell, 

A  charm,  in  every  varying  tone, 
That  speaks  along  each  echoing  dell. 

Like  streams  by  magic  influence  thrown. 
Eolian  sounds !  Oh,  quickly  fall ! 

Disperse  these  deep,  desponding  fears. 
And  let  your  wild,  entrancing  call 

Dissolve  my  bursting  heart  to  tears. 


THE  FIRST  SNOW. 

I  LOVE  to  watch  the  first  soft  snow. 
As  it  slowly  saileth  down, 

Purer  and  whiter  than  the  pearls 

That  grace  a  monarch's  crown; 

Though  winter  wears  a  freezing  look. 
And  many  a  surly  frown. 

It  lighteth  like  the  feathery  down 

Upon  the  naked  trees, 
And  on  the  pale  and  withered  flowers 

That  swing  in  every  breeze; 
And  they  are  clothed  in  such  bright  robes 

As  summer  never  sees. 


It  bringeth  pleasant  memories. 

The  falling,  falling  snow, 


JULIA  H.  SCOTT. 


Of  neighing  steeds,  and  jingling  bells, 

In  the  happy  long  ago; 
When  hopes  were  bright,  and  health  was  good,. 

And  the  spirits  were  not  low. 

And  it  giveth  many  promises 

Of  quiet  joys  in  store ; 
Of  bliss  around  the  blazing  hearth, 

When  daylight  is  no  more  — 
Such  bliss  as  nowhere  else  hath  lived 

Since  the  Eden-days  were  o'er. 

God  bless  the  eye  that  views  with  mine 

The  falling  snow  to-day ; 
May  truth  her  pure  white  mission  spread 

Before  its  searching  ray, 
And  lead,  with  dazzling  garments,  towards 

"The  strait  and  narrow  way." 


MY  WILDWOOD  BOWER. 

My  wildwood  bower !  thou  art  the  same 
As  when  in  childhood's  morn  I  found  thee ; 

Thy  flowers  as  fresh,  thy  birds  as  tame, 

And  June's  first  gales  are  sighing  round  thee : 

No  foot  hath  pressed  thy  balmy  fern, 
No  hand  thy  tangled  vines  unbraided ; 


JULIA  H.  SCOTT. 


Time  hath  not  read  his  lesson  stern 
To  aught  by  thy  green  arch  o'ershaded. 

The  bee  still  lingers  in  the  rose, 

The  humming-bird  upon  the  laurel ; 
And  where  yon  ivy's  tendrils  close, 

The  violet  still  imparts  her  moral : 
No  moss  has  gathered  on  the  spray ; 

My  slight  pine  seat  has  ceased  to  moulder ; 
The  grass  is  young,  the  brook  as  gay — 

Alas !  am  I  alone  grown  older  ? 

My  wildwood  home !  I  never  seek, 

Save  in  bright  June,  thy  trellised  arbour, 
When  earth's  unsaddened  voices  speak, 

And  all  is  joy  that  thou  dost  harbour ; 
So  fondly  clings  the  care-worn  heart 

To  its  first  scenes  of  bliss  and  brightness. 
In  after  years  it  may  not  part 

With  aught  that  breathes  of  youth  and  lightness. 


I 


LOUISA  S.  M'CORD. 

Mrs,  M'Cord  is  the  daughter  of  Hon.  Langdon  Cheves,  of  South  Caro- 
lina ;  and  has  for  years  been  celebrated  in  a  large  circle  of  acquaintance 
for  her  talents  and  literary  attainments.  In  these  she  has  no  equal  among 
the  women  of  her  native  state.  Her  knowledge  of  the  classics,  and  of  the 
French  and  Italian  languages  and  literature — and  her  intimate  acquaintance 
with  the  best  English  authors,  have  richly  stored  her  mind  ;  while  an  un- 
usual vigour  and  grasp  of  intellect,  and  power  of  apprehension,  fit  her  foi 
works  of  the  highest  order.  Her  eai'ly  education  was  received  at  the  North. 
Her  residence  is  a  beautiful  country-seat  near  the  Santee  river,  in  the  parish 
of  St.  Matthew's,  about  thirty-six  miles  from  Columbia.  Her  first  published 
work  is  the  volume  of  Poems  entitled  "  My  Dreams ;"  but  it  is  understood 
that  she  is  engaged  on  a  work  upon  Political  Economy. 

THE  WORLD  OF  DREAMS. 

There  is  a  world  of  visions  and  of  dreams, 

Where  the  unshackled  spirit  seems  to  roam 

Free  from  the  dross  of  Earth. — From  judgment  loosed, 

Imagination  plays  her  boldest  pranks ; 

Now  laughs,  now  weeps,  and  mocks  us  with  her  freaks. 

She  beckons  us,  and  on  we  follow  still. 

Successful  scale  high  Heaven's  conquered  heights, 

Glory  in  worlds  subdued,  which  hardly  gained. 

Again  she  drags  us  down,  and  scenes  of  woe 

And  darkness  close  around  us. — Demons  scowl; 

27 


208 


LOUISA  S.  M'CORD. 


Spirits  of  mischief,  mocking,  gather  near, 
Mopping  and  mowing,  o'er  our  fallen  might, 
E'en  as  men  mock  misfortune's  agony. 
And  envy  scoffs  o'er  power's  broken  wand, 
'Tis  thus  Imagination,  queen  of  dreams, 
Makes  us  her  playthings. 

On  yon  bed  of  straw 
See  the  world's  conquerer  lie, — at  least  in  dreams. — 
The  Macedonian  hero  ne'er  surpassed 
The  feats  of  arms  his  conquering  hand  performs, 
And  Csesar's  laurels  crown  his  monarch  brow. 
Day's  faintest  dawn  must  wake  him  to  his  toil. 
His  labour-hardened  hand  must  guide  the  plough. 

And  look,  where  hunger's  victim  shivering  lies : 
E'en  here,  will  hovering  Fancy  sometimes  smile, — 
His  last  breath  was  a  groan  of  agony. 
From  whence  the  smile  which  brightens  now  his  features  ? 
His  dreams  unlock  the  miser's  iron-bound  chests. 
Bid  gentle  pity  take  a  human  form. — 
Now  kindness'  hand  his  gnawing  want  supplies, 
And  plenty  decks  his  long  ungarnished  board. 

But  now,  behold !    E'en  Fancy  frowns  on  woe, 
And  while  the  tempting  viands  he  would  reach, 
Like  Tantalus,  he  finds  them  shun  his  grasp, 
And  that  deep  moan  speaks  once  more  misery's  reign. 

Pass  on. — Asmodeus-like,  we  '11  wander  round. 
Watch  o'er  each  dreamer,  while  her  varied  tricks 
Mad  Fancy  plays,  and  in  strange  motley  robed 
Of  joy  and  woe,  shows  us  with  wizard  glass 
A  world  of  ever-changing  shadows,  strown 


LOUISA  S.  M  CORD. 


209 


So  like  the  fickle  flittings  of  our  own, 

We  dream  it  still  the  same ;  though  oft  she  bids 

Us  soar,  in  thought,  above  reality, 

Showing  us  scenes  of  bliss  too  bright  for  hope. 

Then  veils  them  in  despair. 

The  infant  mind 
She  fills  with  dreams  of  manhood's  riper  years. 
And  brings  decrepit  age  to  smiling  scenes 
Of  thoughtless  childhood  back. 

The  dying  man, 
By  lingering  sickness  wasted,  sees  once  more 
Health  smile  upon  him,  and  life  beckon  on 
To  varied  scenes  which  formed  his  yesterday. 
And  promise  a  to-morrow. — Or,  perhaps, 
Imagination  still  a  fairer  picture  shows. 
Wanders  through  scenes  from  which  our  waking  thoughts 
Must  shrink  reluctant  back.    With  fearless  step 
She  dares  to  tread  thy  realms,  Etei'nity  ! 
And  gathering  tales  of  bliss,  and  heavenly  joy, 
Brings  to  the  sick  man's  breast  forgotten  hope. — 
Then  sometimes  in  her  play,  she  lays  a  load 
Of  double  grief  upon  the  sufferer. 
And  makes  him  dream  Hell's  torments  are  let  loose. 
He  groans  in  flames,  and  gasps  in  agony, 
While  muttering  phantoms  mock  his  fainting  breath. 
Off,  fiends! — Kind  Heaven,  dispel  the  direful  vision ! 
Mark,  how  the  slumberer  wakes.    His  haggard  eye 
Turns  slowly  round,  dreading,  yet  seeking  still 
The  phantom  fiends,  whose  fearful  shrieks 
Still  echo  in  his  ear.    His  shortening  breaths 


210 


LOUISA  S.  M'COKD. 


Leave  him  nor  strength,  nor  power,  to  know  how  false 

Their  shadowy  shapes. — He  sinks,  while  his  weak  gasps. 

By  terror  hastened,  strangle  Lis  painful  sighs, 

And  with  one  struggling  gurgle,  one  wild  stare, 

His  frightful  dream  is  done.    If  onward  roams 

The  fancy-beckoned  spirit,  'tis  in  scenes 

Detached  from  yon  cold  clod,  whose  stiffening  form 

Sinks  fast  to  loathed  corruption. —  Let  it  rot. 

It  is  humanity.    The  end  of  life. 

The  end  of  dreams. 

Turn,  and  again  behold 
A  spectre-haunted  pillow. — The  murderer  sees 
His  bloody  victims  frown  ;•  now  numbers  o'er 
His  tales  of  sin,  and,  half-exulting,  acts 
Again,  the  heartless  scenes. — Anon,  he  starts. 
Cold  sweat-drops  damp  his  brow,  for  vengeance  frowns, 
And  Fancy's  hell  surrounds  him  : — muttered  prayers, 
And  mingling  curses,  speak  his  anxious  thought. 
Which  half  would  soothe,  half  dares  offended  Heaven. 

And  see  where  softer,  brighter  visions  woo. 
To  scenes  so  differing  from  these  hellish  views 
We  scarce  can  deem  the  painter's  hand  the  same. 
See,  where  the  goddess  of  this  dreamy  world 
Strows  rainbow  hues,  and  Heaven-beaming  light. 
The  lover  dreams  ecstatic  joys  and  bliss. 
Too  bright,  too  bright  for  earth.    His  waking  eye 
Must  see  the  Houri  of  his  visions  fade. 
And  though  the  dream  may  cast  its  sunny  light 
Through  waking  speculations  Fancy  weaves, 
Too  soon  she  tires  of  smiling,  and  the  views 


LOUISA  S.  M'CORD. 


211 


So  brightly  sketched,  fade  as  Experiencp  turns 
Her  leaden  eye,  and  coldly  points  Reai  'iy. 
As  fades  the  flower  'neath  Sol's  too  vivid  ray. 
As  shrinks  the  dew-drop  from  his  parching  heat, 
As  timorous  day  to  darkness  trembling  cedes, 
So  fade  these  glirr  p  '-s  of  Elysian  realms. 
As  Dagon-worshippers  bewept  their  God, 
His  broken  idol's  shattered  wrecks  he  mourns. 

And  yonder  pallid  brow,  which  gently  droops, — 
As  'twere  a  lily  withering  on  its  stem, — 
As  by  a  moonbeam  lit,  across  it  flits 
A  look  of  calm,  to  its  worn  sadness  strange. 
As  dew-drop  'neath  the  noon  of  summer's  sun ; 
So  softly  mild,  we  dare  not  call  it  joy ; 
And  yet  so  stilly  beautiful,  we  look, 
And  wonder  what  could  bring  its  quiet  there. 
See,  from  the  grave  no  spectre-terrors  spring. 
But  forms,  as  'twere  of  angels  come  to  earth. 
The  heavenly  pictures  of  those  things  she  loved. 
And  loving,  lost, — and  losing,  wept, — until 
That  brow  is  faded,  spirit-like,  and  wan. 
E'en  like  to  those  whom  now  once  more  she  dares 
To  see,  and  love,  and  fancy  still  her  own. 

Hark !  to  the  clanking  fetters  !    Yon  dark  cell 
Scarce  gives  the  prisoner  room,  to  lab'ring  turn 
His  wearied  limbs,  benumbed  with  loathed  rest. 
Through  his  murk  dungeon's  darkness,  scarce  can  pierce 
Day's  brightest  sunlit  ray,  with  glimmering  light. 
Behold  his  chains  burst  with  Herculean  strength ; — 
Once  more  the  sun  in  all  his  brilliance  shines, 


212 


LOUISA  S.  M'CORD. 


And  festive  scenes  reign  through  th'  extended  hall. 

E'en  in  his  den  of  sorrow  he  may  dream, 

And  bask  in  mercy's  smile.    The  morrow  comes; — 

What  though  it  bring  the  unmitigated  doom, 

The  word  of  death,  the  sentence,  "  Blood  for  blood  ?" 

To  night,  fond  sleep,  the  Lethe  of  our  woes, 

Lulls  him  to  peace  and  calm  forgetfulness. 

The  hollow  grating  of  his  dungeon  bolt 

Must  murder  hope,  and  wake  him  to  himself. 

And  with  the  new-born  day,  despair  must  rise ; 

Still  of  his  now,  the  quiet  calm  is  blessed. 

Fancy,  thou  nurse  alike  of  joy  and  woe, 
Strange  mocker,  whom  we  love,  e'en  while  thou  frown'st ; 
Who  through  each  scene  of  life,  or  weep'st,  or  smil'st, 
To  paint  each  scene  with  colours  all  thine  own, — 
How  vision-led  we  tread  this  world  of  sleep ! 
Here,  rudderless,  we  're  tossed  on  Fancy's  wave. 
And  in  one  moment's  little  course  oft  find 
A  world  of  happiness  or  misery. 
Strange  picture  of  a  life,  whose  tedious  course 
But  lengthens  out  our  dream  ! — Unfettered  roams 
The  wandering  spirit? — No. — 'Tis  bound,  fast  bound 
In  adamantine  fetters. — Soaring  oft 
Above  those  clayey  realms,  how  quickly  dragged 
Back  to  its  prison-home  ! — We  live,  we  dream. 
And  then  we  die. — ^What  more  ? — Ask'st  thou  what  more? 
Sleep,  wave  thy  downy  pinions, — let  me  dream, 
I  dare  not  think,  what  more. 


LOUISA  S.  M'CORD. 


THE  VOICE  OF  YEARS. 

It  floated  by  on  the  passing  breeze, 

The  voice  of  years  : 
It  breathed  o'er  ocean,  it  wandered  through  earth, 
It  spoke  of  the  time  when  worlds  had  birth, 
When  the  spirit  of  God  moved  over  the  sea. 
When  earth  was  only  a  thing — to  be. 
And  it  sighed,  as  it  passed  on  that  passing  breeze, 

The  voice  of  years. 

From  ocean  it  came  on  a  murmuring  wave. 

The  voice  of  years  : 
And  it  spoke  of  the  time  ere  the  birth  of  light ; 
When  earth  was  hushed,  'neath  the  ocean's  might, 
And  the  waters  rolled,  and  the  dashing  roar 
Of  the  angered  surge  owned  not  yet  the  power. 
Which  whispers  in  that  murmuring  wave 

The  voice  of  years. 

From  earth  it  came,  from  her  inmost  deep. 

The  voice  of  years : 
It  murmured  forth  with  the  bubbling  stream. 
It  came  like  the  sound  of  a  long-past  dream — 
And  it  spoke  of  the  hour  ere  Time  had  birth. 
When  living  thing  moved  not  yet  on  earth. 
And,  solemnly  sad,  it  rose  from  the  deep, 

The  voice  of  years. 


214 


LOUISA  S.  M'CORD. 


From  heaven  it  came,  on  a  beam  of  light, 

The  voice  of  years  : 
And  it  spoke  of  a  God  who  reigned  alone, 
Who  waked  the  stars,  who  lit  the  Sun. 
As  it  glanced  o'er  mountain,  and  river,  and  wood, 
It  spoke  of  the  good  and  the  wonderful  God ; 
And  it  whispered  to  praise  that  God  of  Light, 

The  voice  of  years. 

It  howled  in  the  storm  as  it  threatening  passed, 

The  voice  of  years : 
And  it  spoke  of  ruin,  and  fiercest  might ; 
Of  angry  fiends,  and  of  things  of  night ; 
But  raging  as  o'er  the  Earth  it  strode, 
I  knelt  and  I  prayed  to  the  merciful  God, 
And  methought  it  less  angrily  howled  as  it  passed, 

The  voice  of  years. 

And  it  came  from  yon  moss-grown  ruin  gray, 

The  voice  of  years  : 
And  it  spoke  of  myself,  and  the  years  which  were  gone. 
Of  hopes  which  were  blighted,  and  joys  which  were  flown ; 
Of  the  wreck  of  so  much  that  was  bright  and  was  fair ; 
And  it  made  me  sad,  and  I  wept  to  hear. 
As  it  came  from  yon  moss-grown  ruin  gray. 

The  voice  of  years. 

And  it  rose  from  the  grave,  with  the  song  of  death 

The  voice  of  years  : 
And  I  shuddered  to  hear  the  tale  it  told, 
Of  blighted  youth,  and  hearts  grown  cold ; 


LOUISA  S.  M'CORD. 


And  anguish  and  sorrow  which  crept  to  the  grave, 
To  hide  from  the  spoiler  the  wound  which  he  gave 
And  sadly  it  rose  from  that  home  of  death, 
The  voice  of  years. 

But  again  it  passed  on  the  passing  breeze. 

The  voice  of  years : 
And  it  spoke  of  a  God,  who  watched  us  here, 
Who  heard  the  sigh,  and  who  saw  the  tear ; 
And  it  spoke  of  mercy,  and  not  of  woe ; 
There  was  love  and  hope  in  its  whispering  low ; 
And  I  listened  to  catch,  on  that  passing  breeze. 

The  voice  of  years. 

And  it  spoke  of  a  pain  which  might  not  last. 

That  voice  of  years  : 
And  it  taught  me  to  think,  that  the  God  who  gave 
The  breath  of  life,  could  wake  from  the  grave ; 
And  it  taught  me  to  see  that  this  beautiful  earth 
Was  not  only  made  to  give  sorrow  birth ; 
And  it  whispered,  that  mercy  must  reign  at  last. 

That  voice  of  years. 

And  strangely  methought,  as  it  floated  by. 

That  voice  of  years 
Seemed  fraught  with  a  tone  from  some  higher  sphere ; 
It  whispered  around  me  that  God  was  near ; 
He  spoke  from  the  sunbeam ;  He  spoke  from  the  wave 
He  spoke  from  the  ruin ;  He  spoke  from  the  grave ; 
'Twas  the  voice  of  God,  as  it  floated  by, 
Q  That  voice  of  years. 


216 


LOUISA  S.  M'CORD. 


FORGET  THEE! 

Forget  thee ! — no,  never.    How  can  I  forget, 
When  the  sun  in  yon  heaven  thine  impress  has  set  ? 
For  bright  as  his  beam  is  the  glance  of  thine  eye, 
And  soft  is  thy  smile  as  the  blue,  cloudless  sky. 

In  the  starlight  of  even,  I  still  think  thee  near. 
And  thy  voice  in  the  whispers  of  zephyr  I  hear. 
The  thought  of  thee  wakes  in  the  stillness  of  night, 
And  lingers  around  me  in  Luna's  soft  light. 

In  ocean  it  murmurs,  and  sleeps  on  the  wave. 
Casting  back  to  the  sun  the  bright  light  that  he  gave ; 
Or  reflects  on  its  bosom  the  bright  beaming  star. 
Whose  wandering  rays  come  to  woo  from  afar. 

It  dwells  in  each  flower,  it  sighs  in  each  breeze. 
For  beauty  and  sweetness  are  mingled  in  these ; 
While  all  nature  speaks  of  thee,  then  vain  would  it  be 
To  seek  to  drive  from  me  the  memory  of  thee. 

Forget  thee  !  —  no,  never. — While  earth  has  a  spot 
Where  beauty  is  dwelling,  thou  art  not  forgot ; 
For  in  all  that  is  bright,  or  is  soft,  or  is  fair, 
Thy  memory  lingers, — thy  spirit  is  there. 


JULIET  H.  L.  CAMPBELL. 


This  lady  is  a  native  of  Williamsport,  Lycoming  county,  Pennsylvania, 
and  is  the  daughter  of  the  Hon.  Ellis  Lewis,  formerly  Attorney-General, 
and  at  this  time  President  of  the  Second  Judicial  District  of  Pennsylvania. 
At  a  very  early  age  she  gave  evidence  of  fine  poetic  power,  and  her  more 
mature  productions  are  characterized  by  truthfulness  in  description,  by 
purity  of  sentiment  and  diction,  and  display  great  versatility.  In  1843  she 
was  married  to  James  Campbell,  Esq.,  a  highly  respectable  member  of 
the  Pottsville  Bar. 

A  STORY  OF  SUNRISE. 

Where  the  old  cathedral  towers, 

With  its  dimly  lighted  dome, 
Underneath  its  morning  shadow 

Nestles  my  beloved  home ; 
*   When  the  summer  morn  is  breaking 

Glorious,  with  its  golden  beams. 
Through  my  open,  latticed  window, 

Matin  music  wildly  streams. 

Not  the  peal  of  deep-toned  organ 

Smites  the  air  with  singing  sound, — 

Not  the  voice  of  singing  maiden, 
Sighing,  softer  music  round;  — 

Long  e'er  these  have  hailed  the  morning 
Is  the  mystic  anthem  heard, 


JULIET  H.  L.  CAMPBELL. 


Wildly,  fervently",  outpouring 
From  the  bosom  of  a  bird. 

Every  morn  he  takes  his  station 

On  the  cross  which  crowns  the  spire, 
And  with  Heaven-born  inspiration, 

Vents,  in  voice,  his  bosom's  fire ! 
Every  morn  when  light,  and  shadow. 

Struggling,  blend  their  gold  and  gray. 
From  the  cross,  midway  to  Heaven, 

Streams  his  holy  melody. 

Like  the  summons  from  the  turrets 

Of  an  Eastern  mosque  it  seems — 
"  Come  to  prayer,  to  prayer,  ye  faithful 

Echoes  through  my  morning  dreams. 
Heedful  of  the  invitation 

Of  the  pious  messenger, 
Lo,  I  join  in  meek  devotion 

With  the  lonely  worshipper. 

And  a  gushing,  glad  thanksgiving 

From  my  inmost  heart  doth  thrill. 
Up,  high  up,  to  God  in  Heaven, 

Mingled  with  the  music's  trill. 
Then  the  boy  who  rests  beside  me 

Softly  opes  his  starry  eyes. 
Tosses  back  his  streaming  ringlets, 

Gazes  round  in  sweet  surprise. 


JULIET  H.  L.  CAMPBELL, 


He,  though  sleeping,  felt  the  radiance 

Struggling  through  the  curtained  gloom 
Heard  the  wild  harmonious  hymning, 

Break  the  stillness  of  my  room; 
These  deliciously  commingled 

With  the  rapture  of  his  dreams, 
And  the  Heaven  of  which  I 've  told  him 

On  his  childish  vision  gleams. 

Guardian  seraphs,  viewless  spirits, 

Brooding  o'er  the  enchanted  air. 
Pause,  with  folded  wings,  to  listen 

To  the  lispings  of  his  prayer; 
Up,  to  the  "recording  angel," 

When  their  ward  on  earth  is  done, 
They  will  bear  the  guileless  accents 

Of  my  infant's  orison ! 


A  SONG  OF  SUNSET. 

Now,  the  everlasting  mountains 

Hide  the  sun  which  morning  gave ; 
Meet  are  they,  those  lofty  bulwarks. 

To  become  the  day-god's  grave ! 
See,  the  tender  hues  that  brighten. 

Where  that  sun's  last  glories  were ! 
Seem  they  not,  like  flowers,  scattered 

O'er  his  gorgeous  sepulchre  ? 


JULIET  H.  L.  CAMPBELL. 

And  the  Day,  that  but  existed 

In  the  sun's  all-glorious  light, 
Languishes,  as  broken-hearted, 

Fades  away  in  death  and  night. 
Sympathetic  clouds  of  heaven 

Softly  weep  their  holy  dew, 
While  the  first  bright  star  of  even 

Beams  alone  amid  the  blue. 
Like  a  child  that  doth  inherit 

All  its  parents'  radiant  bloom. 
Watching  with  a  saddened  spirit 

O'er  their  loved  and  hallowed  tomb. 

Day  is  dead,  and  we  are  dying — 

Every  hour  but  speeds  our  doom  — 
Every  breath  we  now  are  drawing 

Brings  us  nearer  to  the  tomb. 
Let  this  thought  rejoice  our  spirits. 

Drooping  o'er  life's  weary  way — 
Every  day  removes  a  burden — 

We  are  dying  every  day. 

"  Dying  daily !  dying  daily  !" 

These  are  words  of  lofty  cheer! 
Falling,  like  a  tale  of  ransom, 

On  a  suffering  captive's  ear. 
Let  us  then,  in  holy  living. 

Tread  the  path  our  Saviour  trod  — 
When  our  pilgrimage  is  ended, 

Calmly  fall  asleep  in  God. 


MARY  S.  B.  DANA. 


Mrs,  Dana,  formerly  Miss  Palmer,  is  well  and  favourably  known  as  the 
authoress  of  the  "  Southern  Harp,"  and  of  "  The  Parted  Family,  and  other 
Poems." 

PASSING  UNDER  THE  ROD. 

I  SAW  the  young  bride,  in  her  beauty  and  pride, 

Bedecked  in  her  snowy  array ; 
And  the  bright  flush  of  joy  mantled  high  on  her  cheek, 

And  the  future  looked  blooming  and  gay : 
And  with  woman's  devotion  she  laid  her  fond  heart 

At  the  shrine  of  idolatrous  love, 
And  she  anchored  her  hopes  to  this  perishing  earth. 

By  the  chain  which  her  tenderness  wove. 
But  I  saw  when  those  heartstrings  were  bleeding  and  torn, 

And  the  chain  had  been  severed  in  two. 
She  had  changed  her  white  robes  for  the  sables  of  grief. 

And  her  bloom  for  the  paleness  of  woe ! 
But  the  Healer  was  there,  pouring  balm  on  her  heart, 

And  wiping  the  tears  from  her  eyes, 
And  he  strengthened  the  chain  he  had  broken  in  twain. 

And  fastened  it  firm  to  the  skies ! 
There  had  whispered  a  voice — 'twas  the  voice  of  her  God, 
"I  love  thee — I  love  thee — pass  under  the  rod 


222 


MARY  S.  B.  DANA. 


I  saw  the  young  mother  in  tenderness  bend 

O'er  the  couch  of  her  slumbering  boy, 
And  she  kissed  the  soft  lips  as  they  murmured  her  name, 

While  the  dreamer  lay  smiling  in  joy. 

0  sweet  as  the  rose-bud  encircled  with  dew, 
When  its  fragrance  is  flung  on  the  air. 

So  fresh  and  so  bright  to  that  mother  he  seemed. 

As  he  lay  in  his  innocence  there. 
But  I  saw  when  she  gazed  on  the  same  lovely  form, 

Pale  as  marble,  and  silent,  and  cold, 
But  paler  and  colder  her  beautiful  boy. 

And  the  tale  of  her  sorrow  was  told ! 
But  the  Healer  was  there  who  had  stricken  her  heart. 

And  taken  her  treasure  away ; 
To  allure  her  to  Heaven  he  has  placed  it  on  high. 

And  the  mourner  will  sweetly  obey : 
There  had  whispered  a  voice — 'twas  the  voice  of  her  God, 
"I  love  thee — I  love  thee — pass  under  the  rod!" 

1  saw  the  fond  brother,  with  glances  of  love, 

Gazing  down  on  a  gentle  young  girl, 
And  she  hung  on  his  arm,  and  breathed  soft  in  his  ear. 

As  he  played  with  each  graceful  curl. 
0,  he  loved  the  sweet  tones  of  her  silvery  voice, 

Let  her  use  it  in  sadness  or  glee ; 
And  he  twined  his  arms  round  her  delicate  form, 

As  she  sat  in  the  eve  on  his  knee. 
But  I  saw  when  he  gazed  on  her  death-stricken  face, 

And  she  breathed  not  a  word  in  his  ear ; 


MARY  S.  B.  DANA. 


223 


And  he  clasped  his  arms  round  an  icy-cold  form, 

And  he  moistened  her  cheek  with  a  tear. 
But  the  Healer  was  there,  and  he  said  to  him  thus, 

"  Grieve  not  for  thy  sister's  short  life 
And  he  gave  to  his  arms  still  another  fair  girl, 

And  he  made  her  his  own  cherished  wife ! 
There  had  whispered  a  voice — 'twas  the  voice  of  his  God, 
"I  love  thee — I  love  thee — pass  under  the  rod!" 

I  saw  too  a  father  and  mother  who  leaned 

On  the  arms  of  a  dear  gifted  son, 
And  the  star  in  the  future  grew  bright  to  their  gaze 

As  they  saw  the  proud  place  he  had  won : 
And  the  fast  coming  evening  of  life  promised  fair, 

And  its  pathway  grew  smooth  to  their  feet. 
And  the  starlight  of  love  glimmered  bright  at  the  end. 

And  the  whispers  of  fancy  were  sweet. 
And  I  saw  them  again,  bending  low  o'er  the  grave 

Where  their  hearts'  dearest  hope  had  been  laid. 
And  the  star  had  gone  down  in  the  darkness  of  night. 

And  the  joy  from  their  bosoms  had  fled. 
But  the  Healer  w^as  there,  and  his  arms  were  around, 

And  he  led  them  with  tenderest  care ; 
And  he  showed  them  a  star  in  the  bright  upper  world, 

'Twas  their  star  shining  brilliantly  there ! 

They  had  each  heard  a  voice — 'twas  the  voice  of  their  God, 

"I  love  thee — I  love  thee — pass  under  the  rod!" 
29 


•224 


MAEY  S.  B.  DANA. 


THE  BIRD  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

Where  is  thy  resting-place,  0  lone  and  lovely  bird  ? 
Thy  drooping  pinions  a  warmer  air  have  stirred. 
Cold  is  the  northern  blast, 

Now  Summer's  breath  is  o'er ; 
Speed  to  thy  home  in  haste, 

Wander  no  more ! 
Or  come  and  rest  thee  here 

Where  warm  hearts  beat  for  thee ; 
But  if  thy  home  is  dear. 
Then  swiftly  flee ! 
0,  gentle  creature,  thou  'rt  trembling  in  the  blast, 
Come,  we  '11  sweetly  warm  thee — Summer  is  past. 

Where  is  tlie  greenwood  tree,  where  thou  didst  build  thy  nest  l 
Why  didst  thou  leave  it,  thy  home,  thy  sunny  rest  ? 
Say,  was  it  torn  from  thee. 
Some  sad,  eventful  day  ? 
0,  wast  thou  forced  to  flee. 

Wandering,  away  ? 
Come,  then,  and  thou  shalt  be 
Like  those  to  us  most  dear. 
Come,  and  we  '11  comfort  thee, 
0,  rest  thee  here  ! 
Beautiful  creature  !  thou  'rt  trembling  in  the  blast, 
Come,  we  '11  sweetly  warm  thee — Summer  is  past. 


• 


AMELIA  B.  WELBl. 


This  lady,  whose  maiden  name  was  Coppuck,  is  a  native  of  St.  Michael's, 
a  small  town  in  Maryland.  At  an  early  age  she  removed  with  her  father 
to  Lexington,  and  subsequently  to  Louisville,  Kentucky.  In  the  latter 
place  she  was  married  to  George  Welby,  Esq,  Her  poetry  first  attracted 
attention  under  the  signature  of  "  Amelia,"  and  was  published  chiefly  in 
the  "  Louisville  Journal."  A  collection  of  her  poems,  in  a  beautiful  vol- 
ume, was  issued  in  1845 ;  and  another  in  1847. 

PULPIT  ELOQUENCE. 

The  day  was  declining — the  breeze  in  its  glee 

Had  left  the  fair  blossoms  to  sing  on  the  sea, 

As  the  sun  in  its  gorgeousness,  radiant  and  still, 

Dropped  down  like  a  gem  from  the  brow  of  the  hill : 

One  tremulous  star,  in  the  glory  of  June, 

Came  out  with  a  smile  and  sat  down  by  the  moon, 

As  she  graced  her  blue  throne  with  the  pride  of  a  queen, 

The  smiles  of  her  loveliness  gladdening  the  scene. 

The  scene  was  enchanting !  in  distance  away 

Rolled  the  foam-crested  waves  of  the  Chesapeake  Bay, 

While,  bathed  in  the  moonlight,  the  village  was  seen. 

With  the  church  in  the  distance,  that  stood  on  the  green ; 

The  soft-sloping  meadows  lay  brightly  unrolled 

With  their  mantles  of  verdure  and  blossoms  of  gold; 


226 


AMELIA  B.  WELBY. 


And  the  earth  in  her  beauty,  forgetting  to  grieve, 
Lay  asleep  in  her  bloom  on  the  bosom  of  eve. 

A  light-hearted  child,  I  had  wandered  away 

From  the  spot  where  my  footsteps  had  gambolled  all  day. 

And  free  as  a  bird's  was  the  song  of  my  soul, 

As  I  heard  the  wild  waters  exultingly  roll ; 

While,  lightening  my  heart  as  I  sported  along 

With  bursts  of  low  laughter  and  snatches  of  song, 

I  struck  in  the  pathway  half-worn  o'er  the  sod 

By  the  feet  that  went  up  to  the  worship  of  God. 

As  I  traced  its  green  windings,  a  murmur  of  prayer 

With  the  hymn  of  the  worshippers  rose  on  the  air ; 

And,  drawn  by  the  links  of  its  sweetness  along, 

I  stood  unobserved  in  the  midst  of  the  throng  : 

For  awhile  my  young  spirit  still  wandered  about 

With  the  birds,  and  the  winds,  that  were  singing  without ; 

But  birds,  waves,  and  zephyrs,  were  quickly  forgot 

In  one  angel-like  being  that  brightened  the  spot. 

In  stature  majestic,  apart  from  the  throng 

He  stood  in  his  beauty,  the  theme  of  my  song  I 

His  cheek  pale  with  fervour — the  blue  orbs  above 

Lit  up  with  the  splendours  of  youth  and  of  love ; 

Yet  the  heart-glowing  raptures  that  beamed  from  those  eyes 

Seemed  saddened  by  sorrows,  and  chastened  by  sighs, 

As  if  the  young  heart  in  its  bloom  had  grown  cold 

With  its  love  unrequited,  its  sorrows  untold. 


AMELIA  B.  WELBY. 


227 


Sucii  language  as  his  I  may  never  recall ; 

But  his  theme  was  salvation — salvation  to  all ; 

And  the  souls  of  a  thousand  in  ecstasy  hung 

On  the  manna-like  sweetness  that  dropped  from  his  tongue ; 

Not  alone  on  the  ear  his  wild  eloquence  stole ; 

Enforced  by  each  gesture,  it  sank  to  the  soul, 

Till  it  seemed  that  an  angel  had  brightened  the  sod 

And  brought  to  each  bosom  a  message  from  God. 

He  spoke  of  the  Saviour- — what  pictures  he  drew  ! 

The  scene  of  His  sufferings  rose  clear  on  my  view  :  — 

The  cross — the  rude  cross  where  He  suffered  and  died ; 

The  gush  of  bright  crimson  that  flowed  from  His  side ; 

The  cup  of  His  sorrows,  the  wormwood  and  gall ; 

The  darkness  that  mantled  the  earth  as  a  pall ; 

The  garland  of  thorns ;  and  the  demon-like  crews. 

Who  knelt  as  they  scoffed  Him — "  Hail,  King  of  the  Jews  \" 

He  spake,  and  it  seemed  that  his  statue-like  form 
Expanded  and  glowed  as  his  spirit  grew  warm — 
His  tone  so  impassioned,  so  melting  in  air. 
As  touched  with  compassion,  he  ended  in  prayer, 
His  hands  clasped  above  him,  his  blue  orbs  upthrown. 
Still  pleading  for  sins  that  were  never  his  own. 
While  that  mouth,  where  such  sweetness  ineffable  clung. 
Still  spoke,  though  expression  had  died  on  his  tongue. 

0  God !  what  emotions  the  speaker  awoke ! 
A  mortal  he  seemed — yet  a  Deity  spoke ; 


228 


AMELIA  B.  WELBY. 


A  man — yet  so  far  from  humanity  riven ! 

On  earth — yet  so  closely  connected  with  heaven ! 

How  oft  in  my  fancy  I 've  pictured  him  there, 

As  he  stood  in  that  triumph  of  passion  and  prayer, 

With  his  eyes  closed  in  rapture — their  transient  eclipse 

Made  bright  by  the  smiles  that  illumined  his  lips ! 

There 's  a  charm  in  delivery,  a  magical  art, 

That  thrills,  like  a  kiss,  from  the  lip  to  the  heart ; 

'Tis  the  glance — the  expression — the  well-chosen  word. 

By  whose  magic  the  depths  of  the  spirit  are  stirred — 

The  smile — the  mute  gesture — the  soul-startling  pause  — 

The  eye's  sweet  expression,  that  melts  while  it  awes — 

The  lip's  soft  persuasion — its  musical  tone — 

0  such  was  the  charm  of  that  eloquent  one ! 

The  time  is  long  past,  yet  how  clearly  defined 
That  bay,  church,  and  village,  float  up  on  my  mind ! 

1  see  amid  azure  the  moon  in  her  pride. 

With  the  sweet  little  trembler,  that  sat  by  her  side ; 
I  hear  the  blue  waves,  as  she  wanders  along, 
Leap  up  in  their  gladness  and  sing  her  a  song ; 
And  I  tread  in  the  pathway  half-worn  o'er  the  sod 
By  the  feet  that  went  up  to  the  worship  of  God. 

The  time  is  long  past,  yet  what  visions  I  see ! 

The  past,  the  dim  past,  is  the  present  to  me ; 

I  am  standing  once  more  'mid  that  heart-stricken  throng — 

A  vision  floats  up — 'tis  the  theme  of  my  song — 


AMELIA  B.  WELBY. 


229 


All  glorious  and  bright  as  a  spirit  of  air, 

The  light  like  a  halo  encircling  his  hair  — 

As  I  catch  the  same  accents  of  sweetness  and  love, 

That  whisper  of  Jesus — and  point  us  above. 

How  sweet  to  my  heart  is  the  picture  I 've  traced ! 

Its  chain  of  bright  fancies  seemed  almost  effaced, 

Till  Memory,  the  fond  one,  that  sits  in  the  soul, 

Took  up  the  frail  links,  and  connected  the  whole  : 

As  the  dew  to  the  blossom,  the  bud  to  the  bee. 

As  the  scent  to  the  rose,  are  those  memories  to  me ; 

Round  the  chords  of  my  heart  they  have  tremblingly  clung, 

And  the  echo  it  brings  is  the  song  I  have  sung. 


THE  RAINBOW. 

I  SOMETIMES  have  thoughts,  in  my  loneliest  hours. 

That  lie  on  my  heart  like  the  dew  on  the  flowers, 

Of  a  ramble  I  took  one  bright  afternoon 

When  my  heart  was  as  light  as  a  blossom  in  June ; 

The  green  earth  was  moist  with  the  late  fallen  showers. 

The  breeze  fluttered  down  and  blew  open  the  flowers, 

While  a  single  white  cloud,  to  its  haven  of  rest 

On  the  white  wing  of  peace,  floated  off  in  the  West. 

As  I  threw  back  my  tresses  to  catch  the  cool  breeze. 
That  scattered  the  rain-drops  and  dimpled  the  seas, 


230 


AMELIA  B.  WELBY. 


Far  up  the  blue  sky  a  fair  rainbow  unrolled 

Its  soft-tinted  pinions  of  purple  and  gold. 

'Twas  born  in  a  moment,  yet,  quick  as  its  birth 

It  was  stretched  to  the  uttermost  ends  of  the  earth, 

And,  fair  as  an  angel,  it  floated  as  free, 

With  a  wing  on  the  earth  and  a  wing  on  the  sea. 

How  calm  was  the  ocean !  how  gentle  its  swell ! 

Like  a  woman's  soft  bosom  it  rose  and  it  fell ; 

While  its  light  sparkling  waves,  stealing  laughingly  o'er, 

When  they  saw  the  fair  rainbow  knelt  down  on  the  shore. 

No  sweet  hymn  ascended,  no  murmur  of  prayer, 

Yet  I  felt  that  the  spirit  of  worship  was  there. 

And  I  bent  my  young  head,  in  devotion  and  love, 

'Neath  the  form  of  the  angel,  that  floated  above. 

How  wide  was  the  sweep  of  its  beautiful  wings ! 
How  boundless  its  circle  !  how  radiant  its  rings ! 
If  I  looked  on  the  sky,  'twas  suspended  in  air; 
If  I  looked  on  the  ocean,  the  rainbow  was  there ; 
Thus  forming  a  girdle,  as  brilliant  and  whole 
As  the  thoughts  of  the  rainbow,  that  circled  my  soul. 
Like  the  wings  of  the  Deity,  calmly  unfurled, 
It  bent  from  the  cloud  and  encircled  the  world. 

There  are  moments,  I  think,  when  the  spirit  receives 
Whole  volumes  of  thought  on  its  unwritten  leaves ; 
When  the  folds  of  the  heart  in  a  moment  unclose. 
Like  the  innermost  leaves  from  the  heart  of  a  rose. 
And  thus,  when  the  rainbow  had  passed  from  the  sky. 
The  thoughts  it  awoke  were  too  deep  to  pass  by ; 


AMELIA  B.  WELBY. 

It  left  my  full  soul,  like  the  wing  of  a  dove, 

All  fluttering  with  pleasure,  and  fluttering  with  love. 

I  know  that  each  moment  of  rapture  or  pain 
But  shortens  the  links  in  life's  mystical  chain ; 
I  know  that  my  form,  like  that  bow  from  the  wave  ' 
Must  pass  from  the  earth,  and  lie  cold  in  the  grave ; 
Yet  0 !  when  death's  shadows  my  bosom  uncloud. 
When  I  shrink  at  the  thought  of  the  coffin  and  shroud, 
May  hope,  like  the  rainbow,  my  spirit  enfold 
In  her  beautiful  pinions  of  purple  and  gold ! 


MELODIA. 

I  MET  once,  in  my  girlish  hours, 

A  creature,  soft  and  warm ; 
Her  cottage-bonnet,  filled  with  flowers. 

Hung  swinging  on  her  arm; 
Her  voice  was  sweet  as  the  voice  of  Love, 

And  her  teeth  were  pure  as  pearls. 
While  her  forehead  lay,  like  a  snow-white  dove 

In  a  nest  of  nut-brown  curls; 
She  was  a  thing  unknown  to  fame — 
Melodia  was  her  strange,  sweet  name. 

I  never  saw  an  eye  so  bright. 

And  yet  so  soft  as  hers; 
It  sometimes  swam  in  liquid  light. 

And  sometimes  swam  in  tears; 

•so 


AMELIA  B.  WELBY. 

It  seemed  a  beauty,  set  apart 

For  softness  and  for  sighs; 
But  0 !  Melodia's  melting  heart 

Was  softer  than  her  eyes — 
For  they  were  only  formed  to  spread 
The  softness  from  her  spirit  shed. 

I've  gazed  on  many  a  brighter  face, 

But  ne'er  on  one  for  years 
Where  beauty  left  so  soft  a  trace 

As  it  had  left  on  hers. 
But  who  can  paint  the  spell,  that  wove 

A  brightness  round  the  whole  ? 
'T  would  take  an  angel  from  above 

To  paint  the  immortal  soul — 
To  trace  the  light,  the  inborn  grace, 
The  spirit  sparkling  o'er  her  face 

Her  bosom  was  a  soft  retreat 

For  love,  and  love  alone. 
And  yet  her  heart  had  never  beat 

To  Love's  delicious  tone. 
It  dwelt  within  its  circle  free 

From  tender  thoughts  like  these. 
Waiting  the  little  deity. 

As  the  blossom  waits  the  breeze 
Before  it  throws  its  leaves  apart, 
And  trembles,  like  the  love-touched  heart. 

She  was  a  creature,  strange  as  fair, 
First  mournful  and  then  wild — 


AMELIA  B.  WELBY. 


Now  laughing  on  the  clear  bright  air 

As  merry  as  a  child, 
Then  melting  down,  as  soft  as  even, 

Beneath  some  new  control. 
She'd  throw  her  hazel  eyes  to  heaven, 

And  sing  with  all  her  soul, 
In  tones  as  rich  as  some  young  bird's, 
Warbling  her  own  delightful  words. 

Melodia !  0,  how  soft  thy  darts, 

How  tender  and  how  sweet! 
Thy  song  enchained  a  thousand  hearts. 

And  drew  them  to  thy  feet; 
And,  as  thy  bright  lips  sang,  they  caught 

So  beautiful  a  ray. 
That,  as  I  gazed,  I  almost  thought 

The  spirit  of  thy  lay 
Had  left,  while  melting  on  the  air, 
Its  sweet  expression  painted  there. 

Sweet  vision  of  that  starry  even ! 

Thy  virgin  beauty  yet. 
Next  to  the  blessed  hope  of  heaven. 

Is  on  my  spirit  set. 
It  is  a  something,  shrined  apart, 

A  light  from  memory  shed. 
To  live  until  this  tender  heart. 

On  which  it  lives,  is  dead — 
Reminding  me  of  brighter  hours 
Of  summer  eves  and  summer  flowers. 


AMELIA  B.  WELBY. 


SEVENTEEN. 

I  HAVE  a  fair  and  gentle  friend. 

Whose  heart  is  pure,  I  ween, 
As  ever  was  a  maiden's  heart 

At  joyous  seventeen. 
She  dwells  among  us  like  a  star, 

That  from  its  bower  of  bliss 
Looks  down,  yet  gathers  not  a  stain 

From  aught  it  sees  in  this, 

I  do  not  mean  that  flattery 

Has  never  reached  her  ear ; 
I  only  say  its  syren  song 

Has  no  effect  on  her; 
For  she  is  all  simplicity, 

A  creature  soft  and  mild — 
Though  on  the  eve  of  womanhood, 

In  heart  a  very  child. 

And  yet,  within  the  misty  depths 

Of  her  dark  dreamy  eyes, 
A  shadowy  something,  like  deep  thought, 

In  tender  sadness  lies : 
For  though  her  glance  still  shines  as  bright 

As  in  her  childish  years 
Its  wildness  and  its  lustre  now 

Are  softened  down  by  tears — 


AMELIA  B.  WELBY 


235 


Tears  that  steal  not  from  hidden  springs 

Of  sorrow  and  regret, 
For  none  but  lovely  feelings  in 

Her  gentle  breast  have  met; 
For  every  tear  that  gems  her  eye 

From  her  young  bosom  flows, 
Like  dew-drops  from  a  golden  star, 

Or  sweetness  from  a  rose. 

For  e'en  in  life's  delicious  spring 

We  oft  have  memories 
That  throw  around  our  sunny  hearts 

A  transient  cloud  of  sighs; 
For  a  wondrous  change  within  the  heart 

At  that  sweet  time  is  wrought, 
When  on  the  heart  is  softly  laid 

A  spell  of  deeper  thought. 

And  she  has  reached  that  lovely  time, 

The  sweet  poetic  age. 
When  to  the  eye  each  floweret's  leaf 

Seems  like  a  glowing  page ; 
For  a  beauty  and  a  mystery 

About  the  heart  is  thrown. 
When  childhood's  merry  laughter  yields 

To  girlhood's  softer  tone. 

I  do  not  know  if  round  her  heart 
Love  yet  hath  thrown  his  wing; 


236 


AMELIA  B.  WELBY. 


I  rather  think  she 's  like  myself. 

An  April-hearted  thing : 
I  only  know  that  she  is  fair, 

And  loves  me  passing  well; 
But  who  this  gentle  maiden  is, 

I  feel  not  free  to  tell. 


MRS.  R.  S.  NICHOLS. 


This  lady,  the  daughter  of  Dr.  Reed,  was  born  in  Greenwich,  New 
Jersey.  At  an  early  age  she  removed  to  the  West,  where  soon  after,  in 
Louisville,  Kentucky,  she  was  married.  Her  first  published  pieces  appeared 
in  the  "  News-Letter,"  a  paper  conducted  by  Prentice  &  Co. ;  since  which 
time  she  has  contributed  much  beautiful  poetry  to  the  various  Western 
periodicals.  In  1844  she  published  a  volume  of  poems,  which  was  well  re- 
ceived by  the  public,  and  favourably  noticed  by  the  press.  Since  the 
autumn  of  1840,  she  has  resided  in  Cincinnati. 

THE  SHADOW. 

Twice  beside  the  crumbling  well 

Where  the  lichen  clingeth  fast, 
Twice,  the  shadow  on  them  fell, 

And  the  breeze  went  wailing  past. 
"Shines  the  moon  this  eve  as  brightly 

As  the  harvest-moon  may  shine ;  — 
Stands  each  star,  that  glimmers  nightly, 

Like  a  saint  within  its  shrine ;  — 
Whence  the  shade  then,  whence  the  shadow  ? 

Canst  thou  tell,  sweet  lady  mine  ?" 

But  the  lady's  cheek  was  pale. 
And  her  lips  were  snowy  white. 

As  she  clasped  her  silken  veil, 
Floating  in  the  silver  light, 

Like  an  angel's  wing  it  glistened, — 
Like  a  Sibyl  seemed  the  maid; 


238 


MRS.  R.  S.  NICHOLS. 


But  in  vain  the  lover  listened, 

Silence  on  her  lips  was  laid! 
Though  they  moved,  no  sound  had  broken 

Through  the  stillness  of  the  glade. 

Brighter  grew  her  burning  eyes, — 

Wan  and  thin  the  rounded  cheek; 
Was  it  terror  or  surprise. 

That  forbade  the  lips  to  speak? 
To  his  heart,  then,  creeping  slowly, 

Came  a  strange  and  deadly  fear; 
Words  and  sounds  profane,  unholy, 

Stole  into  his  shrinking  ear. — 
And  the  moon  sank  sudden  downwards, 

Leaving  earth  and  heaven  drear ! 

Slowly  from  the  lady's  lips 

Burst  a  deep  and  heavy  sigh — 
As  from  some  long,  dark  eclipse, 

Rose  the  red  moon  in  the  sky. — 
Saw  he  then  the  lady  leaning 

Cold  and  fainting  by  the  well; 
Eyes  once  filled  with  tender  meaning 

Closed  beneath  some  hidden  spell : 
What  was  heard  he  dared  not  whisper. 

What  he  feared  were  death  to  tell ! 

The  little  hand  was  wondrous  fair 
Which  to  him  so  wildly  clung, — 


MRS.  R.  S.  NICHOLS. 

Raven  was  the  glossy  hair 

Then  from  off  her  forehead  flung ; 
Much  too  fair  that  hand  for  staining 

With  a  crime  of  darkest  dye, — 
But,  the  moon  again  is  waning 

In  the  pale  and  starless  sky. — 
Hark!  what  words  are  slowly  falling 

On  the  breeze  that  swept  them  by? 

"  Touch  her  not !"  the  voice  it  said, 

"Wrench  thy  mantle  from  her  grasp 
Thus  the  disembodied  dead 

Warns  from  that  polluting  clasp. — 
Touch  her  not,  but  still  look  on  her; 

All  an  angel  seemeth  she ; 
Yet,  the  guilty  stains  upon  her 

Shame  the  Fiend's  dark  company! — 
But,  her  hideous  crime  is  nameless 

Under  Heaven's  canopy !" 

Twice,  beside  the  crumbling  well. 

Where  the  lichen  clingeth  fast, 
Twice,  the  shadow  on  them  fell. 

And  the  breeze  went  wailing  past. 
Twice  the  voice's  hollow  warning 

Pierced  the  haunted  midnight  air, — '• 
Then  the  golden  light  of  morning 

Streamed  upon  the  lady  there:  — 
They,  who  found  her,  stark  and  lonely, 

Said,  the  corse  was  very  fair. 


240 


MRS.  R.  S.  NICHOLS. 


SONG  OF  THE  MADMAN. 

It  was  summer!  it  was  summer! 

The  green  earth  was  gay; 
The  wild  buds  and  blossoms 

Sprang  up  in  our  way : 
And  the  leaves  lay  together 

Upon  their  young  boughs, 
And  whispered,  like  lovers, 

When  breathing  their  vows :  — 
And  I  whispered  with  them. 

And  shouted  in  glee, 
As  the  breeze  fluttered  lightly 

From  blossom  to  tree;  — 
For  I  rode  on  its  pinions, 

And  mounted  in  air, — 
My  kingdom,  fair  Freedom — 

My  bondman.  Despair ! 

What  feverish  joy  then  rushed  over  my  soul, 
As  deeply  I  drank  from  a  rosy-wreathed  bowl ;  — 
The  strength  of  the  whirlwind  I  held  in  my  hand, 
And  longed  to  kneel  down  on  the  white,  shelly  strand. 
And  hurl  back  the  waves  as  they  leaped  to  the  shore. 
Or  play  with  the  ocean,  and  mimic  its  roar ! 

I  was  mad !  I  was  mad !  but  they  knew  it  not  then. 
For  I  laughed  and  discoursed  with  their  wise,  prudent 


MRS.  R.  S.  NICHOLS. 


241 


And  knelt  at  the  feet  of  the  sirens  of  song ; 

But  I  yelled  with  delight  as  I  stole  from  the  throng, 

For  I  knew  I  deceived  them,  with  word  and  with  smile — 

That  they  bowed  in  their  pride  to  insanity's  wile  ! 

I  was  mad !  I  was  mad !  but  my  spirit  was  gay ; 

I  rode  with  the  wind  through  the  long  summer  day. 

For  I  followed  a  demon  wherever  he  led. 

And  at  midnight — at  midnight — we  danced  with  the  dead ! 

Oh !  a  host  of  white  things,  with  their  hideous  charms, 
Come  and  rock  me  at  eve  in  their  skeleton  arms ; 
They  shriek  in  my  ear — and  then  laugh  at  my  pain. 
While  their  fierce,  scorching  eyes  burn  deep  in  my  brain. 
Then  we  hurry  away  through  the  damp,  yielding  sward, 
And  rouse  up  the  ghosts  in  the  merry  churchyard. 

Ha,  ha,  ha !  come  along 

With  the  death-dance  and  song!  — 
Thus  I  sing  to  my  merry,  merry  crew ; 

We  have  brave  time  o'  nights 

By  the  bright  charnel-lights. 
As  we  tread  down  the  turf  and  the  dew ! 

I  will  show  you  the  spot  where  a  maiden  sleeps. 

For  the  long  grass  is  greenest  there. 
And  over  her  head  a  willow,  willow  weeps. 

Like  a  mourner  in  deep  despair ! 

Oh!  they  laid  her  low. 
With  her  young  bosom's  snow. 
When  the  hoar  frost  was  white  on  the  ground, 


242 


MRS.  R.  S.  NICHOLS. 


When  the  winds,  bleak  and  cold, 
And  the  trees,  dark  and  old, 
Were  moaning  and  shrieking  around. 

But  the  spring  stole  along. 

And  the  robin's  blithe  song 
Floated  out  through  the  churchyard's  gloom, 

Then  the  young  violets  came 

And  wove  her  sweet  name, 
With  their  blossoms  above  her  tomb. 

They  said  that  she  loved — that  she  perished  with  grief; 
I  know  she  was  mad !  and  that  death  was  relief : 
We  are  wedded !  we  are  wedded !  by  our  madness  allied. 
And  I  pine  to  fall  asleep  by  my  beautiful  bride. 

Ha,  ha,  ha !  come  along 
With  the  death-dance  and  song ! 
■    Thus  I  sing  to  my  merry,  merry  crew; — 
We  have  brave  time  o'  nights 
By  the  bright  charnel-lights, 
As  we  tread  down  the  turf  and  the  dew ! 


MRS.  R.  S.  NICHOLS. 


LITTLE  NELL. 

Spring,  with  breezes  cool  and  airy, 
Opened  on  a  little  fairy ; 
Ever  restless,  making  merry, 
She,  with  pouting  lips  of  cherry. 
Lisped  the  words  she  could  not  master, 
Vexed  that  she  might  speak  no  faster — 
Laughing,  running,  playing,  dancing. 
Mischief  all  her  joys  enhancing — 
Full  of  baby-mirth  and  glee. 
It  was  a  joyous  sight  to  see 

Sweet  Little  Nell  ! 

Summer  came,  the  green  Earth's  lover ! 
Ripening  the  tufted  clover — 
Calling  down  the  glittering  showers — 
Breathing  on  the  buds  and  flowers — 
Rivalling  young,  pleasant  May 
In  a  generous  holyday ! 
Smallest  insects  hummed  a  tune 
Through  the  blessed  nights  of  June  : 
And  the  maiden  sang  her  song 
Through  the  days  so  bright  and  long — 
Dear  Little  Nell  ! 

Autumn  came  !  the  leaves  were  falling. 
Death  the  little  one  was  calling ; 


MRS.  R.  S.  NICHOLS. 


Pale  and  wan  she  grew,  and  weakly ; 
Bearing  all  her  pains  so  meekly, 
That  to  us  she  seemed  still  dearer 
As  the  trial-hour  drew  nearer. 
But  she  left  us  hopeless,  lonely, 
Watching  by  her  semblance  only, — 
And  a  little  grave  they  made  her, — 
In  the  churchyard  cold,  they  laid  her, — 
Laid  her  softly  down  to  rest, 
With  a  white  rose  on  her  breast — 
Poor  Little  Nell  ! 


FAREWELL  OF  THE  SOUL  TO  THE  BODY. 

Hark!  a  solemn  bell  is  pealing 
From  the  far-off  spirit-clime; 

Angel-forms,  expectant,  kneeling 
On  the  outer  shores  sublime ; 

Hither  turn  their  eyes  of  splendour. 
Piercing  through  the  mists  of  Time ! 

Thou  art  faintly,  sadly  sighing. 
Voyager  through  Time  with  me; 

Can  it  be,  thou  'rt  sinking — dying  ? 
Can  it  be  that  I  am  free  ? 

Free  to  drink  in  life  immortal. 
Unrestrained  now  by  thee  ? 


MRS.  R.  S.  NICHOLS. 


245 


Yes !  thine  earthly  days  are  numbered, 
Yet  thou  'rt  clinging  round  me  still ; 

Still  my  drooping  wings  are  cumbered 
By  thy  weak  and  fleshly  will : 

Gently  thus  I  loose  thy  claspings, 
Wishing  thee  no  further  ill. 

Though  I 've  often  bent  upon  thee 

A  rebuking  spirit's  gaze, 
When  thy  spell  was  fully  on  me, 

In  our  early,  youthful  days. 
Sore  and  loath  I  am  to  leave  thee, 

Treading  Death's  bewildering  maze ! 

All  of  enmity  is  banished 

As  I  hear  thee,  moaning  low. 

Pride  and  beauty  have  so  vanished — 
Nothing  can  revive  them  now  ! 

See  the  hand  of  Death  triumphing 
In  the  dews  upon  thy  brow  ! 

Ah!  thy  heart  is  faintly  tolling. 
Like  a  closely  muffled  bell. 

And  the  purple  rivers  rolling 
'Neath  thy  bosom's  gentle  swell, 

Flow  like  waters,  when  receding 
From  a  thirsty,  springless  well. 

What  a  weight  is  on  thy  bosom ! 
What  a  palsy  in  thy  hand ! 


MRS.  R.  S.  NICHOLS. 


Thus  Death  chilled  fair  Eden's  blossom 
Thus,  at  his  august  command, 

All  of  human  birth  and  nurture 
Shuddering  in  his  presence  stand! 

Let  me,  through  thine  eyelids  closing. 
Look  once  more  upon  the  earth ; 

There  thou  soon  wilt  be  reposing, 
Borne  away  from  home  and  hearth, 

Where  thy  footsteps  once  were  greeted 
With  the  noisy  shout  of  mirth. 

Hark!  what  organ-tones  are  swelling 
Through  the  spirit-realm  on  high ; 

Ransomed  souls  are  sweetly  telling 
Of  the  joys  beyond  the  sky ! 

Let  me  here  no  longer  linger. 
When  the  heavens  are  so  nigh! 

Life's  companion!  thus  we  sever; 

Our  short  pilgrimage  is  done ! 
We  shall  reunite  for  ever. 

Travel-stained  and  weary  one. 
When  the  voice  of  God  Eternal 

Wakes  the  dead  with  trumpet-tone ! 


THE  MISSES  WARE. 


In  1844  appeared  a  volume  in  New  York,  entitled  "  The  Wife  of  Leon, 
and  other  Poems,  by  Two  Sisters  of  the  West ;"  which  was  favourably  re- 
ceived by  the  public  and  the  press,  and  created  no  little  curiosity  in  literary 
circles.  After  being  erroneously  attributed  to  various  other  authors,  this 
volume  has  at  last,  we  believe,  been  correctly  ascribed  to  the  Misses  Ware, 

I  WALK  IN  DREAMS  OF  POETRY. 

I  WALK  in  dreams  of  Poetry! 

They  compass  me  around! 
I  hear  a  low  and  startling  voice 

In  every  passing  sound ! 
I  meet  in  every  gleaming  star 

On  which  at  eve  I  gaze, 
A  deep  and  glorious  eye,  to  fill 

My  soul  with  burning  rays. 

I  walk  in  dreams  of  poetry! 

The  very  air  I  breathe 
Is  fraught  with  visions  wild  and  free. 

That  round  my  spirit  breathe ! 
A  shade,  a  sigh,  a  floating  cloud, 

A  low  and  whispered  tone ! 
These  have  a  language  to  my  brain; 

A  language  deep  and  lone! 

32 


THE  MISSES  WARE. 

I  walk  in  dreams  of  poetry ! 

And  in  my  spirit  bow 
Unto  a  lone  and  distant  shrine, 

That  none  around  me  know ! 
From  every  heath  and  hill  I  bring 

A  garland,  rich  and  rare, 
Of  flowery  thought,  and  murmuring  sigh, 

To  wreathe  mine  altar  fair! 

I  walk  in  dreams  of  poetry ! 

Strange  spells  are  on  me  shed ; 
I  have  a  world  within  my  soul, 

Where  other  steps  may  n't  tread ! 
A  deep  and  wide-spread  universe 

Where  spirit-sound  and  sight 
Mine  inward  vision  ever  greet, 

With  fair  and  radiant  light ! 

My  footsteps  tread  the  earth  below. 

While  soars  my  soul  to  heaven : 
Small  is  my  portion  here — yet  there. 

Bright  realms  to  me  are  given. 
I  clasp  my  kindred's  greeting  hands; 

Walk  calmly  by  their  side ! 
And  yet  I  feel  between  us  stands 

A  barrier,  deep  and  wide ! 

I  watch  their  deep  and  household  joy. 
Around  the  evening  hearth ; 


THE  MISSES  WARE. 

When  the  children  stand  beside  each  knee, 
With  laugh  and  shout  of  mirth. 

But  oh!  I  feel  unto  my  soul 
A  deeper  joy  is  brought. 

To  rush  with  eagle-wings  and  strong, 
Up !  in  a  heaven  of  thought ! 

I  watch  them  in  their  sorrowing  hours. 

When,  with  their  spirits  tossed, 
I  hear  them  wail,  with  bitter  cries. 

Their  earthly  prospects  crossed ; 
I  feel  that  I  have  sorrows  wild 

In  my  heart  buried  deep ! 
Immortal  griefs !  that  none  may  share ; 

With  me  no  eyes  can  weep! 

And  strange  it  is !  I  cannot  say 

If  it  is  woe  or  weal. 
That  thus  unto  my  heart  can  flow 

Fountains  so  few  may  feel ! 
The  gift  that  can  my  spirit  raise 

The  cold  dark  earth  above. 
Has  flung  a  bar  between  my  soul 

And  many  a  heart  I  love ! 

Yet  I  walk  in  dreams  of  poetry ! 

And  would  not  change  that  path. 
Though  on  it  from  a  darkened  sky 

Were  poured  a  tempest's  wrath. 


250 


THE  MISSES  WARE. 


Its  flowers  are  mine — its  deathless  blooms;  . 

I  know  not  yet  the  thorn; 
I  dream  not  of  the  evening  glooms. 

In  this,  my  radiant  morn. 

Oh !  still  in  dreams  of  poetry 

Let  me  for  ever  tread ! 
With  earth  a  temple,  where  divine 

Bright  oracles  are  shed! 
They  soften  down  the  earthly  ills 

From  which  they  cannot  save  ! 
They  make  a  romance  of  our  life; 

They  glorify  the  grave ! 


CAROLINE  M.  SAWYER. 


This  lady,  whose  maiden  name  was  Fisher,  is  a  native  of  Newton, 
Massachusetts,  where  she  resided  until  her  marriage  with  the  Rev.  T.  J. 
Sawyer.    She  now  resides  in  Clinton,  New  York. 

THE  BOY  AND  HIS  ANGEL. 

"  Oh,  mother,  I 've  been  with  an  angel  to-day ! 
I  was  out  alone  in  the  forest  at  play, 
Chasing  after  the  butterflies,  watching  the  bees, 
And  hearing  the  woodpecker  tapping  the  trees ; 
So  I  played,  and  I  played,  till,  so  weary  T  grew, 
I  sat  down  to  rest  in  the  shade  of  a  yew ; 
While  the  birds  sang  so  sweetly  high  up  on  its  top, 
I  held  my  breath,  mother,  for  fear  they  would  stop ! 
Thus  a  long  while  I  sat,  gazing  up  to  the  sky. 
And  watching  the  clouds  that  went  hurrying  by. 
When  I  heard  a  voice  calling  just  over  my  head. 
That  sounded  as  if,  '  Come,  oh  brother !'  it  said. 
And  there,  right  up  over  the  top  of  the  tree. 
Oh,  mother,  an  angel  was  beckoning  to  me ! 

"And, '  Brother !'  once  more,  'come,  oh  brother !'  he  cried. 
And  flew  on  light  pinions  close  down  by  my  side ! 
And,  mother,  oh,  never  was  being  so  bright. 
As  the  one  which  then  beamed  on  my  wondering  sight ! 


252 


CAROLINE  M.  SAWYER. 


His  face  was  as  fair  as  the  delicate  shell ; 

His  hair  down  his  shoulders  in  long  ringlets  fell ; 

While  his  eyes,  resting  on  me  so  melting  with  love, 

Were  as  soft  and  as  mild  as  the  eyes  of  a  dove ! 

And  somehow,  dear  mother,  I  felt  not  afraid. 

As  his  hand  on  my  brow  he  caressingly  laid, 

And  murmured  so  softly  and  gently  to  me, 

'  Come,  brother,  the  angels  are  waiting  for  thee  !' 

"  And  then  on  my  forehead  he  tenderly  pressed 

Such  kisses — oh,  mother,  they  thrilled  through  my  breast 

As  swiftly  as  lightning  leaps  down  from  on  high, 

When  the  chariot  of  God  rolls  along  the  black  sky ! 

While  his  breath,  floating  round  me,  was  soft  as  the  breeze 

That  played  in  my  tresses,  and  rustled  the  trees : 

At  last  on  my  head  a  deep  blessing  he  poured. 

Then  plumed  his  bright  pinions  and  upward  he  soared ! 

And  up,  up  he  went,  through  the  blue  sky  so  far. 

He  seemed  to  float  there  like  a  glittering  star ; 

Yet  still  my  eyes  followed  his  radiant  flight, 

Till,  lost  in  the  azure,  he  passed  from  my  sight ! 

Then,  oh,  how  I  feared,  as  I  caught  the  last  gleam 

Of  his  vanishing  form,  it  was  only  a  dream ! 

When  soft  voices  murmured  once  more  from  the  tree, 

'  Come,  brother,  the  angels  are  waiting  for  thee  !'  " 

Oh !  pale  grew  that  mother,  and  heavy  her  heart. 
For  she  knew  her  fair  boy  from  this  world  must  depart ; 
That  his  bright  locks  must  fade  in  the  dust  of  the  tomb 
Ere  the  Autumn's  winds  withered  the  Summer's  rich  bloom ! 


CAKOLINE  M.  SAWYER. 


253 


Oh,  how  his  young  footsteps  she  watched,  day  by  day. 

As  his  delicate  form  wasted  slowly  away. 

Till  the  soft  light  of  heaven  seemed  shed  o'er  his  face. 

And  he  crept  up  to  die  in  her  loving  embrace  ! 

"  Oh,  clasp  me,  dear  mother,  close,  close  to  your  breast, 

On  that  gentle  pillow  again  let  me  rest ! 

Let  me  once  more  gaze  up  to  that  dear,  loving  eye, 

And  then,  oh,  methinks,  I  can  willingly  die ! 

Now  kiss  me,  dear  mother !  oh,  quickly  !  for  see ! 

The  bright,  blessed  angels  are  waiting  for  me !" 

Oh,  wild  was  the  anguish  that  swept  through  her  breast 
As  the  long,  frantic  kiss  on  his  pale  lips  she  pressed, 
And  felt  the  vain  search  of  his  soft,  pleading  eye. 
As  it  strove  to  meet  hers,  ere  the  fair  boy  could  die ! 
"  I  see  you  not,  mother,  for  darkness  and  night 
Are  hiding  your  dear  loving  face  from  my  sight — 
But  I  hear  your  low  sobbings — dear  mother,  good-bye ! 
The  angels  are  ready  to  bear  me  on  high ! 
I  will  wait  for  you  there — but,  oh,  tarry  not  long, 
Lest  grief  at  your  absence  should  sadden  my  song !" 
He  ceased,  and  his  hands  meekly  clasped  on  his  breast. 
While  his  sweet  face  sank  down  on  its  pillow  of  rest ; 
Then,  closing  his  eyes,  now  all  rayless  and  dim. 
Went  up  with  the  angels  that  waited  for  him ! 


254 


CAROLINE  M.  SAWYER. 


SPURN  NOT  THE  GUILTY. 

Scorn  not  the  man  whose  spirit  feels 

The  curse  of  guilt  upon  it  rest ; 
Upon  whose  brow  the  hideous  seals 

Of  crime  and  infamy  are  pressed ! 
Spurn  not  the  lost  one ! — nor,  in  speech 

More  cold  and  withering  than  despair, 
Of  stern,  relentless  vengeance  preach — 

For  he  thy  lesson  will  not  bear ! 

'Twill  rouse  a  demon  in  his  heart 

Which  vainly  thou  wouldst  strive  to  chain, 
And  bid  a  thousand  furies  start 

To  life,  which  ne'er  may  sleep  again. 
No  !  better,  from  her  forest  lair 

The  famished  lioness  to  goad. 
Than  in  his  guilt,  remorse,  despair, — 

With  wrathful  threats  the  sinner  load ! 

But  if  a  soul  thou  wouldst  redeem 

And  lead  a  lost  one  back  to  God ; — 
Wouldst  thou  a  guardian-angel  seem 

To  one  who  long  in  guilt  hath  trod — 
Go  kindly  to  him — take  his  hand 

With  gentlest  words  within  thy  own, 
And  by  his  side  a  brother  stand 

Till  all  the  demons  thou  dethrone. 


CAROLINE  M.  SAWYER. 

He  is  a  man,  and  he  will  yield, 

Like  snows  beneath  the  torrid  ray, 
And  his  strong  heart,  though  fiercely  steeled, 

Before  the  breath  of  love  give  way. 
He  had  a  mother  once,  and  felt 

A  mother's  kiss  upon  his  cheek, 
And  at  her  knee  at  evening  knelt 

The  prayer  of  innocence  to  speak ! 

A  mother ! — ay !  and  who  shall  say. 

Though  sunk,  debased,  he  now  may  be. 
That  spirit  may  not  wake  to-day 

Which  filled  him  at  that  mother's  knee  ? 
No  guilt  so  utter  e'er  became. 

But  'mid  it  we  some  good  might  find ; 
And  virtue,  through  the  deepest  shame, 

Still  feebly  lights  the  darkest  mind. 

Scorn  not  the  guilty,  then,  but  plead 

With  him,  in  kindest,  gentlest  mood. 
And  back  the  lost  one  thou  mayst  lead 

To  God,  humanity,  and  good ! 
Thou  art  thyself  but  man,  and  thou 

Art  weak,  perchance,  to  fall  as  he ; 
Then  mercy  to  the  fallen  show. 

That  mercy  may  be  shown  to  thee ! 


250 


CAROLINE  M.  SAWYER. 


THE  BLIND  GIRL. 

Crown  her  with  garlands !  'mid  her  sunny  hair 

Twine  the  rich  blossoms  of  the  laughing  May, 
The  lily,  snow-drop,  and  the  violet  fair. 

And  queenly  rose,  that  blossoms  for  a  day. 
Haste,  maidens,  haste  !  the  hour  brooks  no  delay — 

The  bridal  veil  of  soft  transparence  bring ; 
And,  as  ye  wreathe  the  gleaming  locks  away, 

O'er  their  rich  wealth  its  folds  of  beauty  fling, — 

She  seeth  now ! 

Bring  forth  the  lyre  of  sweet  and  solemn  sound. 

Let  its  rich  music  be  no  longer  still ; 
Wake  its  full  chords,  till,  sweetly  floating  round. 

Its  thrilling  echoes  all  our  spirits  fill. 
Joy  for  the  lovely !  that  her  lips  no  more 

To  notes  of  sorrow  tune  their  trembling  breath ; 
Joy  for  the  young !  whose  starless  course  is  o'er, — 

lo  !  sing  paeans  for  the  Bride  of  Death ! 

She  seeth  now ! 

She  has  been  dark ;  through  all  the  weary  years 
Since  first  her  spirit  into  being  woke, 

Through  those  dim  orbs,  that  ever  swam  in  tears. 
No  ray  of  sunlight  ever  yet  hath  broke. 

Silent  and  dark !  herself  the  sweetest  flower 
That  ever  blossomed  in  an  earthly  home. 


CAROLINE  M.  SAWYER. 

Unuttered  yearnings  ever  were  her  dower, 

And  voiceless  prayers  that  light  at  length  might  come 

She  seeth  now ! 

A  lonely  lot !  yet  oftentimes  a  sad 

And  mournful  pleasure  filled  her  heart  and  brain, 
And  beamed  in  smiles, — e'er  sweet,  but  never  glad — 

As  sorrow  smiles,  when  mourning  winds  complain. 
Nature's  great  voice  had  ever,  for  her  soul, 

A  thrilling  power  the  sightless  only  know ; 
While  deeper  yearnings  through  her  being  stole. 

For  light  to  gild  that  being's  darkened  flow. 

She  seeth  now  ! 

Strike  the  soft  harp,  then !  for  the  cloud  hath  passed, 

With  all  its  darkness,  from  her  sight  away ; 
Beauty  hath  met  her  waiting  eyes  at  last, 

And  light  is  hers  within  the  land  of  day. 
'Neath  the  cool  shadows  of  the  tree  of  life, 

Where  bright  the  fount  of  youth  immortal  springs. 
Far  from  this  earth,  with  all  its  weary  strife, 

Her  pale  brow  fanned  by  shining  seraphs'  wings. 

She  seeth  now ! 

Ah,  yes,  she  seeth !  through  yon  misty  veil, 
Methinks  even  now  her  angel-eyes  look  down, 

While  round  me  falls  a  light  all  soft  and  pale, — 
The  moonlight  lustre  of  her  starry  crown, — 


258 


CAROLINE  M. 


SAWYER. 


And  to  my  heart,  as  earthly  sounds  retire, 
Come  the  low  echoes  of  celestial  words 

Like  sudden  music  from  some  haunted  lyre, 

That  strangely  swells  when  none  awake  its  chords. 

But,  hush!  'tis  past;  the  light,  the  sound,  are  o'er, — 
Joy  for  the  maiden !  she  is  dark  no  more ! 

She  seeth  now ! 


CATHARINE  H.  ESLING. 


Mrs.  Esling,  better  known  to  the  public  as  Miss  Waterman,  was  born 
in  Philadelphia,  where  she  still  resides.  Her  first  published  pieces  appeared 
in  the  "  New  York  Mirror."  She  has  since  contributed  to  the  Annuals, 
and  to  Graham's  and  Godey's  Magazines.  In  1840  she  was  married  to 
Captain  Esling. 

TO  THE  WIND. 

Where  hast  thou  wandered,  wind  ? 
Hast  stopped  upon  thy  course  to  wake 
The  ripples  of  the  gentle  lake, 
Or  'mid  the  rose-embowered  brake 
Thy  form  entwined? 

Or  out  upon  the  deep, 
Hast  caused  the  billows'  crested  form 
To  ride  exulting  through  the  storm — 
Hushing  the  seaman's  wild  alarm 
In  endless  sleep  ? 

Or  soft  upon  the  chord 

Of  some  lone  lyre,  thy  breath  has  swept, 

Breaking  the  silence  fondly  kept 

In  memory  of  the  loved,  the  wept, 

'Neath  earth's  green  sward? 


260 


CATHARINE  H.  ESLING. 


Or  from  the  towering  hills 
First  by  the  early  daylight  kissed, 
Enveloped  in  their  veils  of  mist, 
Where  the  air-wanderers  love  to  list 
The  murmuring  rills? 

Answer  me,  wind — 
Tell  me  the  caves  wherein  you  dwell. 
Tell  me  why  every  lengthening  swell 
Echo  prolongs,  as  'twere  a  spell 
With  magic  twined. 

Why  speak'st  thou  not? — 
Is  there  but  that  sad  sound  alone, 
Mysterious  wind,  that  is  thine  own  ? 
Canst  thou  not  tell  from  whence  thou'st  flown, 
Cavern,  or  grot? 

No,  thou  art  dumb :  — 
But  we  can  feel  that  every  breeze. 
Wafting  its  music  through  the  trees. 
From  some  fair  bower,  or  far-off  seas. 
Has  gently  come. 

Oh!  thy  soft  tone 
Speaks  of  a  spirit  unconfined, 
That,  which  no  fetters  e'er  could  bind, 
The  free,  the  ever-wandering  wind. 
Alone,  alone. 


CATHARINE  H.  ESLING.  261 


THE  CAPTIVE. 

A  DYING  taper  dimly  burned  within  a  captive's  cell. 
And  the  gloom,  and  desolation  there,  that  taper  lighted 
well ; 

There  was  peace  upon  the  pale,  pale  brow,  and  silence  in  the 
breast. 

For  the  dweller  in  that  dungeon  damp  had  sunk  at  last  to 
rest. 

The  locks  that  clustered  o'er  his  brow — (now  changed  by 

crime  and  care) — 
Were  rich,  luxuriant,  massy  folds,  of  dark  and  glossy  hair ; 
They  were  paler  than  the  temples  now,  on  which  they  sadly 

lay, 

For  sorrow  had  outsped  e'en  time,  and  blanched  the  ringlets 
gray. 

The  fire  of  his  eye  was  quenched,  and  'neath  each  screening 
lid 

The  light  that  was  a  mother's  joy,  in  slumber  soft  was  hid ; 
The  hand  that  gathered  wild  flowers  once,  in  childhood's 
happy  reign, 

Was  tightened  with  a  straining  grasp,  around  an  iron  chain. 

He  rested  on  the  dungeon's  ground,  a  dungeon  low  and  dim, 
And  there  was  not  a  being  near,  to  sigh  or  care  for  him  : 


262 


CATHARINE  H.  ESLING. 


No  gentle  tread  was  heard  to  steal  across  the  cold,  damp 
floor ; 

No  watching  form  in  earnest  love,  his  own  was  bending 
o'er. 

For  he  had  done  a  deed  that  shut  the  gates  of  mercy  tight, 
And  not  a  gleam  of  sunlight  broke  within  his  house  of  night. 
But  he  had  wept  o'er  earlier  years,  and  a  full  hoard  of  love 
Had  oped  for  him  the  portals  bright  of  endless  bliss  above. 

A  smile  was  on  the  captive's  face — it  sweetly  seemed  to 
stray 

O'er  his  wan  lips,  like  some  bright  thing  that  here  had  lost 
its  way — 

Some  spirit  of  the  upper  air,  that  came  in  sunny  gleams 
To  people  with  forgotten  things  the  slumberer's  midnight 
dreams. 

It  beamed  across  his  marble  brow — a  smile  had  seldom  been 
Of  late,  upon  the  features  of  the  grief-worn  captive  seen ; 
But  oh !  it  sped  like  sudden  light  through  a  dark  tempest  cloud, 
And  days  came  back,  the  days  of  youth,  in  many  a  sunlit 
crowd. 

Voices  were  ringing  in  his  ear,  voices  unheard  for  years, 
A  Father's  smile,  a  Sister's  kiss,  a  Mother's  happy  tears ; 
He  stood  beside  the  household  hearth,  in  manhood's  glorious 
pride, 

And  in  that  dream  of  other  days,  the  lonely  captive  died. 


CATHARINE  H.  ESLING. 


263 


PARTING  WORDS. 

Last  parting  words,  how  long  the  spell 

Endures,  around  them  cast; 
The  slowly  faltered,  sad  farewell, 

Loved  lips  have  whispered  last ! 
How  often,  when  the  giddy  meet. 

Some  stricken  heart  hath  heard 
The  stranger's  careless  lips  repeat 

Its  own  last  parting  word ! 

They  come  like  hidden  echoes  back, 

That  lingered  fondly  near. 
And  joy's  half-bright,  half-shaded  track 

Is  watered  with  a  tear. 
The  whispers  of  a  tongue  unknown 

May  strike  the  bosom's  chord. 
With  the  same  music-breath,  and  tone 

That  spoke  its  parting  word. 

It  is  an  old,  familiar  sound. 

That  little  word,  farewell. 
And  yet  how  deep  its  unseen  wound, 

How  sad  its  funeral  knell ! 
'Tis  felt  by  all — the  trusting  heart 

With  yearning  fondness  stirred. 
Must  learn  the  bitter  task  to  part, 

To  breathe  its  aching  word. 


CATHARINE  H.  ESLING. 


Who  hath  not  wept  at  severed  ties? 

Who  hath  not  felt  the  pain 
Of  looking  into  gentle  eyes 

They  ne'er  might  see  again? 
Who  hath  not  treasured  long  and  well 

That  sound  in  sorrow  heard, 
And  filled  the  heart's  remotest  cell 

With  one  low  parting  word  ? 

From  all  we  loved  in  earlier  days 

We  '11  part  in  some  sad  hour  : 
It  may  be  childhood's  sunny  ways, 

Some  long-nursed  tender  flower, 
Some  haunt  we  sought  in  joy,  or  pain, 

Some  low-voiced  singing-bird, 
Or  young  affection's  love-linked  chain 

Snapped  by  a  parting  word. 


ANNE  C.  LYNCH. 


Miss  Lynch  is  the  daughter  of  an  Irish  Patriot  of  the  disastrous  days 
of '98,  who,  though  only  sixteen  years  of  age  at  the  time  of  the  occurrences 
of  that  melancholy  year,  was  so  distinguished  by  his  bravery,  that  he  suf- 
fered an  imprisonment  of  four  years,  and  subsequently,  in  consequence, 
with  Emmet  and  others,  was  banished  for  life. 

The  subject  of  this  notice  has  been  but  a  short  time  before  the  public — 
yet  the  merit  of  her  writings  is  such  as  to  give  her  a  place  in  the  foremost 
file  of  our  female  poets.  Her  poetry  is  characterized  by  depth  of  thought, 
beautiful  moral  sentiment,  and  exquisite  diction.  Her  imagination  is  chiefly 
subjective,  and  calls  in  Nature  to  explain  her  thought  oftener  than  it  goes 
out  to  illustrate  the  external. 

THE  IDEAL. 

"La  vie  est  un  sommeil,  Vamour  en  est  le  reve." 

A  SAD,  sweet  dream !    It  fell  upon  my  soul 

When  song  and  thought  first  woke  their  echoes  there, 

Swaying  my  spirit  to  its  wild  control, 
And  with  the  shadow  of  a  fond  despair 

Darkening  the  fountain  of  my  young  life's  stream ;  — 

It  haunts  me  still,  and  yet  I  know  'tis  but  a  dream. 

Whence  art  thou,  shadowy  presence,  that  canst  hide 
From  my  charmed  sight  the  glorious  things  of  earth  ? 

A  mirage,  o'er  life's  desert  dost  thou  glide  ? 
Or  with  those  glimmerings  of  a  former  birth, 


266 


ANNE  C.  LYNCH. 


A  "  trailing  cloud  of  glory,"  dost  thou  come 

From  some  bright  world  afar,  our  unremembered  home  ? 

I  know  thou  dwell'st  not  in  this  dull,  cold  Real, 
I  know  thy  home  is  in  some  brighter  sphere, 

I  know  I  shall  not  meet  thee,  my  Ideal, 

In  the  dark  wanderings  that  await  me  here ; 

Why  comes  thy  gentle  image,  then,  to  me. 

Wasting  my  night  of  life  in  one  long  dream  of  thee  ? 

The  city's  peopled  solitude,  the  glare 

Of  festal  halls,  moonlight,  and  music's  tone 

All  breathe  the  sad  refrain — Thou  art  not  there  ; 
And  even  with  Nature  I  am  still  alone :  — 

With  joy  I  see  her  summer  bloom  depart ; 

I  love  stern  winter's  reign — 'tis  winter  in  my  heart. 

And  if  I  sigh  upon  my  brow  to  see 

The  deepening  shadow  of  Time's  fleeting  wing, 
'Tis  for  the  youth  I  might  not  give  to  thee, 

The  vanished  brightness  of  my  first  sweet  spring  ; 
That  I  might  give  thee  not  the  joyous  form 
Unworn  by  sighs  and  tears,  unblighted  by  the  storm. 

And  when  the  hearts  I  should  be  proud  to  win, 
Breathe,  in  those  tones  that  woman  holds  so  dear, 

Words  of  impassioned  homage  unto  mine, 
Coldly  and  harsh  they  fall  upon  my  ear ; 

And  as  I  listen  to  the  fervent  vow, 

iMy  weary  heart  replies,  "Alas,  it  is  not  thou .'" 


ANNE  C.  LYNCH 


267 


And  when  the  thoughts  within  my  spirit  glow 
That  would  outpour  themselves  in  words  of  fire, 

If  some  kind  influence  bade  the  music  flow, 

Like  that  which  woke  the  notes  of  Memnon's  lyre, — 

Thou,  sunlight  of  my  life,  wak'st  not  the  lay, 

And  song  within  my  heart  unuttered  dies  away. 

Depart,  0  shadow  !  fatal  dream,  depart ! 

Go,  I  conjure  thee  leave  me  this  poor  life, 
And  I  will  meet  with  firm,  heroic  heart. 

Its  threatening  storms  and  its  tumultuous  strife ; 
And  with  the  poet-seer  will  see  thee  stand 
To  welcome  my  approach  to  thine  own  Spirit-land. 


SONNET. 

As  some  dark  stream  within  a  cavern's  breast 
Flows  murmuring,  moaning,  for  the  distant  sun. 

So,  ere  I  met  thee,  murmuring  its  unrest 
Did  my  life's  current  coldly,  darkly,  run. 

And  as  that  stream  beneath  the  sun's  full  gaze 
Its  separate  course  and  life  no  more  maintains, 
But  now  absorbed,  transfused,  far  o'er  the  plains. 

It  floats  etherealized  in  those  warm  rays, — 

So,  in  the  sunlight  of  thy  fervent  love. 

My  heart,  so  long  to  earth's  dark  channels  given. 

Now  soars  all  pain,  all  doubt,  all  ill  above, 
And  breathes  the  ether  of  the  upper  Heaven ; 

So  thy  high  spirit  holds  and  governs  mine. 

So  is  my  life,  my  being  lost  in  thine. 


ANNE  C.  LYNCH. 


PAUL  PREACHING  AT  ATHENS. 

Greece  !  hear  that  joyful  sound ! 
A  stranger's  voice  upon  thy  sacred  hill, 
Whose  tones  shall  bid  the  slumbering  nations  round 

Wake  with  convulsive  thrill. 
Athenians  !  gather  there,  he  brings  you  words 
Brighter  than  all  your  boasted  lore  affords. 

He  brings  you  news  of  One 
Above  Olympian  Jove.    One  in  whose  light 
Your  gods  shall  fade  like  stars  before  the  sun. 

On  your  bewildered  night. 
That  Unknown  God  of  whom  ye  darkly  dream 
In  all  his  burning  radiance  shall  beam. 

Behold,  he  bids  you  rise 
From  your  dark  worship  round  that  idol  shrine  ; 
He  points  to  Him  who  reared  your  starry  skies, 

And  bade  your  Phoebus  shine. 
Lift  up  your  souls  from  where  in  dust  ye  bow  ; 
That  God  of  gods  commands  your  homage  now. 

But,  brighter  tidings  still ! 
He  tells  of  one  whose  precious  blood  was  spilt 
In  lavish  streams  upon  Judea's  hill, 

A  ransom  for  your  guilt, — 
Who  triumphed  o'er  the  grave,  and  broke  its  chain ; 
Who  conquered  Death  and  Hell,  and  rose  again. 


ANNE  C.  LYNCH. 


Sages  of  Greece !  come  near ; 
Spirits  of  daring  thought  and  giant  mould, 
Ye  questioners  of  time  and  nature,  hear 

Mysteries  before  untold ! 
Immortal  life  revealed !  light  for  which  ye 
Have  tasked  in  vain  your  proud  philosophy. 

Searchers  for  some  First  Cause 
Through  doubt  and  darkness, — lo  !  he  points  to  One 
Where  all  your  vaunted  reason  lost  must  pause, 

Too  vast  to  think  upon : 
That  was  from  everlasting,  that  shall  be 
To  everlasting  still,  eternally. 

Ye  followers  of  him 
Who  deemed  his  soul  a  spark  of  Deity ! 
Your  fancies  fade, — your  master's  dreams  grow  dim 

To  this  reality. 
Stoic !  unbend  that  brow,  drink  in  that  sound  ! 
Sceptic !  dispel  those  doubts,  the  truth  is  found. 

Greece !  though  thy  sculptured  walls 
Have  with  thy  triumphs  and  thy  glories  rung, 
And  through  thy  temples  and  thy  pillared  halls 

Immortal  poets  sung, — 
No  sounds  like  these  have  rent  your  startled  air ; 
They  open  realms  of  light  and  bid  you  enter  there. 


270 


ANNE  C.  LYNCH. 


THE  WASTED  FOUNTAINS. 

"And  their  nobles  have  sent  theh  little  ones  to  the  waters;  they  came  to  the 
pits  and  found  no  water;  they  returned  with  their  vessels  empty." — Jeremiah, 
xiv.  3. 

When  the  youthful  fever  of  the  soul 

Is  awakened  in  thee  first, 
And  thou  go'st  like  Judah's  children  forth 

To  slake  the  burning  thirst ; 

And  when  dry  and  wasted,  like  the  springs 

Sought  by  that  little  band, 
Before  thee  in  their  emptiness 

Life's  broken  cisterns  stand ; 

When  the  golden  fruits  that  tempted 

Turn  to  ashes  on  the  taste, 
And  thine  early  visions  fade  and  pass 

Like  the  mirage  of  the  waste ; 

When  faith  darkens  and  hopes  vanish 

In  the  shade  of  coming  years. 
And  the  urn  thou  bear'st  is  empty, 

Or  o'erflowing  with  thy  tears ; 

Though  the  transient  springs  have  failed  thee, 
Though  the  founts  of  youth  are  dried. 

Wilt  thou  among  the  mouldering  stones 
In  weariness  abide  ? 


ANNE  C.  LYNCH. 


271 


Wilt  thou  sit  among  the  ruins, 

With  all  words  of  cheer  unspoken, 

Till  the  silver  cord  is  loosened. 
Till  the  golden  bowl  is  broken  ? 

Up  and  onward !  toward  the  East 
Green  oases  thou  shalt  find, — 

Streams  that  rise  from  higher  sources 
Than  the  pools  thou  leav'st  behind. 

Life  has  import  more  inspiring 
Than  the  fancies  of  thy  youth ; 

It  has  hopes  as  high  as  Heaven ; 
It  has  labour,  it  has  truth ; 

It  has  wrongs  that  may  be  righted. 
Noble  deeds  that  may  be  done. 

Its  great  battles  are  unfought, 
Its  great  triumphs  are  unwon. 

There  is  rising  from  its  troubled  deeps 

A  low,  unceasing  moan ; 
There  are  aching,  there  are  breaking 

Other  hearts  besides  thine  own. 

From  strong  limbs  that  should  be  chainless, 

There  are  fetters  to  unbind ; 
There  are  words  to  raise  the  fallen ; 

There  is  light  to  give  the  blind ; 

35 


272 


ANNE  C.  LYNCH. 


There  are  crushed  and  broken  spirits 
That  electric  thoughts  may  thrill ; 

Lofty  dreams  to  be  embodied 
By  the  might  of  one  strong  will. 

There  are  God  and  Heaven  above  thee ; 

Wilt  thou  languish  in  despair  ? 
Tread  thy  griefs  beneath  thy  feet, 

Scale  the  walls  of  Heaven  by  prayer — 

'Tis  the  key  of  the  Apostle 

That  opens  Heaven  from  below ! 

'Tis  the  ladder  of  the  Patriarch, 
Whereon  angels  come  and  go ! 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  AN  INFANT. 

Why  should  we  weep  for  thee, 
Since  thou  art  gone  unsullied  back  to  Heaven, 
No  stain  upon  thy  spirit's  purity. 

No  sin  to  be  forgiven? 

Love  watched  thee  from  thy  birth ; 
Fond  hearts  around  thee  tireless  vigils  kept, — 
And  o'er  thy  tender  soul  the  storms  of  earth 

Had  never  rudely  swept. 


ANNE  C.  LYNCH. 


273 


Thou  'rt  spared  a  fearful  lore, — 
A  knowledge  all  attain  who  linger  here ; 
The  changed,  the  cold,  the  dead,  were  words  that  bore 

No  import  to  thine  ear. 

Methought  I  saw  in  thee 
Thus  early,  as  I  marked  by  many  a  token, 
A  soul  that  might  not  war  with  Destiny, 

A  heart  that  could  be  broken. 

But  sinless,  tearless,  gone, 
Undimmed,  unstained,  who  would  not  thus  have  died  ? 
For  thee  then  let  these  vain  regrets  be  done. 

These  selfish  tears  be  dried. 

Go  to  thy  little  bed ! 
The  verdant  turf  is  springing  fresh  and  fair, 
The  flowers  thou  lov'dst  shall  blossom  o'er  thy  head, 

The  spring  birds  warble  there. 

And  while  to  shapeless  dust 
Thy  cherub  form  is  gently  mouldering  back, 
Our  thoughts  shall  upward  soar  in  hopeful  trust. 

On  thy  freed  spirit's  track. 


274 


ANNE  C.  LYNCH. 


SONNET. 

ASPIRATION. 

The  planted  seed,  consigned  to  common  earth, 

Disdains  to  moulder  with  the  baser  clay; 

But  rises  up  to  meet  the  light  of  day. 
Spreads  all  its  leaves  and  flowers  and  tendrils  forth, 

And,  bathed  and  ripened  in  the  genial  ray, 
Pours  out  its  perfume  on  the  wandering  gales. 
Till  in  that  fragrant  breath  its  life  exhales. 
So  this  immortal  germ  within  my  breast 

Would  strive  to  pierce  the  dull  dark  clod  of  sense ; 

With  aspirations,  winged  and  intense  ;  — 
Would  so  stretch  upward,  in  its  tireless  quest. 
To  meet  the  Central  Soul,  its  source,  its  rest : 
So,  in  the  fragrance  of  the  immortal  flower. 
High  thoughts,  and  noble  deeds,  its  life  it  would  outpour. 


LAURA  M. 


THURSTON, 


The  maiden  name  of  this  lady  was  Hawley ;  she  was  a  native  of  Nor- 
folk, Connecticut.  In  1839  she  was  married  to  Mr.  Franklin  Thurston,  a 
merchant  of  New  Albany,  Indiana.    She  died  in  1842. 

ON  CROSSING  THE  ALLEGHANIES. 

I  HAIL  thee,  Valley  of  the  West, 

For  what  thou  yet  shalt  be ! 
I  hail  thee  for  the  hopes  that  rest 

Upon  thy  destiny ! 
Here — from  this  mountain  height,  I  see 
Thy  bright  waves  floating  to  the  sea, 

Thine  emerald  fields  outspread. 
And  feel  that  in  the  book  of  fame, 
Proudly  shall  thy  recorded  name 

In  later  days  be  read. 
Yet,  while  I  gaze  upon  thee  now, 

All  glorious  as  thou  art, 
A  cloud  is  resting  on  my  brow, 

A  weight  upon  my  heart. 
To  me — in  all  thy  youthful  pride — 
Thou  art  a  land  of  cares  untried. 

Of  untold  hopes  and  fears. 
Thou  art — yet  not  for  thee  I  grieve ; 
But  for  the  far-off  land  I  leave, 

I  look  on  thee  with  tears. 


276 


LAURA  M.  THURSTON. 


0 !  brightly,  brightly  glow  thy  skies, 

In  summer's  sunny  hours! 
The  green  earth  seems  a  paradise 

Arrayed  in  summer  flowers! 
But  oh!  there  is  a  land  afar. 
Whose  skies  to  me  are  brighter  far, 

Along  the  Atlantic  shore ! 
For  eyes  beneath  their  radiant  shrine, 
In  kindlier  glances  answered  mine — 

Can  these  their  light  restore? 
Upon  the  lofty  bound  I  stand. 

That  parts  the  East  and  West; 
Before  me — lies  a  fairy  land; 

Behind — a  home  of  rest! 
Here,  Hope  her  wild  enchantment  flings, 
Portrays  all  bright  and  lovely  things. 

My  footsteps  to  allure — 
But  there,  in  Memory's  light,  I  see 
All  that  was  once  most  dear  to  me — 

My  young  heart's  cynosure ! 


SARAH  HELENA  WHITMAN. 


Mrs.  Whitman  is  a  native  of  Providence,  Rhode  Island,  where  she  still 
resides.  Her  father,  the  late  Nicholas  Power,  a  merchant  of  that  city,  was 
a  lineal  descendant  from  Nicholas  Power,  one  of  that  noble  little  band  who 
consorted  with  Roger  Williams  on  his  departure  from  Salem,  to  establish, 
in  the  wilderness,  a  community  maintaining  the  right  of  the  individual  to 
entire  freedom  from  spiritual  jurisprudence  and  thraldom. 

At  an  early  age,  Miss  Power  was  married  to  John  Winslow  Whitman, 
a  son  of  the  Hon.  Kilborne  Whitman,  of  Pembroke,  Massachusetts. 

THE  PAST. 

"  So  near — Yet  oh  how  far." — Goethe's  Helena. 

Thick  darkness  broodeth  o'er  the  world :  — 

The  raven  pinions  of  the  night, 
Close  on  her  silent  bosom  furled, 

Reflect  no  gleam  of  orient  light. 
E'en  the  wild  Norland  fires  that  mocked 

The  faint  bloom  of  the  eastern  sky. 
Now  leave  me  (in  close  darkness  locked) 

To  night's  weird  realm  of  phantasie. 

Borne  from  pale  shadow-lands  remote, 

A  morphean  music,  wildly  sweet. 
Seems  on  the  starless  gloom  to  float 

Like  the  white-pinioned  paraclete. 
Softly  into  my  dream  it  flows. 

Then  faints  into  the  silence  drear, 


SARAH  HELENA  WHITMAN. 


While  from  the  hollow  dark  outgrows 
The  phantom  Past,  pale-gliding  near. 

The  visioned  Past — so  strangely  fair — 

So  veiled  in  shadowy  soft  regrets  — 
So  steeped  in  sadness — like  the  air 

That  lingers  when  the  day-star  sets! 
Ah,  could  I  fold  it  to  my  heart, 

On  its  cold  lip  my  kisses  press, 
This  waste  of  aching  life  impart 

To  win  it  back  from  nothingness!^ 

Close  fold  it  to  my  throbbing  heart, 

On  its  cold  lips  my  life  exhale. 
Or  bid  it  from  my  dream  depart. 

Nor  mock  with  bliss  lone  sorrow's  bale 
Thin  as  a  cloud  of  summer  even. 

All  beauty  from  my  gaze  it  bars 
Shuts  out  the  silver  cope  of  Heaven, 

And  glooms  athwart  the  dying  stars. 

Cold,  sad  and  spectral  by  my  side 

It  breathes  of  love's  ethereal  bloom, 
Of  bridal  memories,  long  affied 

To  the  dread  silence  of  the  tomb. 
Sweet  cloistral  memories  that  the  heart 

Shuts  close  within  its  chalice  cold  — 
Faint  perfumes  that  no  more  dispart 

From  the  bruised  lily's  floral  fold. 


SARAH  HELENA  WHITMAN. 


279 


"My  soul  is  weary  of  her  life;" 

My  heart  sinks  with  a  slow  despair; 
The  solemn  star-lit  hours  are  rife 

With  phantasie, — the  noontide  glare 
And  the  cool  morning,  "  fancy-free," 

Are  false  with  shadows — for  the  day 
Brings  no  blithe  sense  of  verity, 

Nor  wins  from  twilight  thoughts  away. 

Oh  bathe  me  in  the  Lethean  stream, 

And  feed  me  on  the  Lotus  flowers; 
Shut  out  this  false,  bewildering  gleam, 

The  dream-light  of  departed  hours. 
The  future  can  no  charm  confer 

My  heart's  deep  solitudes  to  break, 
No  angel  wing  again  shall  stir 

The  waters  of  that  silent  lake. 

I  wander  in  pale  dreams  away. 

And  shun  the  morning's  golden  star 
To  follow  still  that  failing  ray 

For  ever  near — "  yet  oh  how  far !" 
Then  bathe  me  in  the  Lethean  stream. 

And  feed  me  on  the  Lotus  flowers; 
Nor  leave  one  late  and  lingering  dream. 

One  memory  of  departed  hours. 

36 


280 


SARAH  HELENA  WHITMAN. 


DAVID. 

SUGSESTED  BI  A  STATUE,  REPRESENTINS  THE  YOUNG  CHAMPION  OF  ISRAEL, 
AS  HE  STANDS  PKEPAKED  TO  HURL  THE  SLING  AT  GOLLATH. 

"And  Samuel  said  unto  Jesse,  Are  here  all  thy  children  ?   And  he  said,  There 

remaineth  yet  the  youngest,  and  behold,  he  keepeth  the  sheep  And  he 

sent,  and  brought  him  in.  Now  David  was  of  a  beautiful  countenance,  and 
goodly  to  look  at.  And  the  Lord  said,  Arise,  anoint  him :  for  this  is  he." 

Ay,  this  is  he — the  bold  and  gentle  boy 

That  in  lone  pastures  by  the  mountain's  side 

Guarded  his  fold,  and  through  the  midnight  sky 
Saw  on  the  blast  the  "  God  of  battles"  ride ; 

Beheld  His  bannered  armies  on  the  height, 

And  heard  their  clarion  sound  through  all  the  stormy  night. 

The  valiant  boy  that  o'er  the  twilight  wold 
Tracked  the  dark  lion  and  ensanguined  bear. 

Following  their  bloody  footsteps  from  the  fold 
Far  down  the  gorges  to  their  lonely  lair — 

This  the  stout  heart  that  from  the  lion's  jaw 

Back  o'er  the  shuddering  waste  the  bleeding  victim  bore. 

Though  his  fair  locks  lie  all  unshorn  and  bare 

To  the  bold  toying  of  the  mountain  wind, 
A  conscious  glory  haunts  the  o'ershadowing  air, 

And  waits  with  glittering  coil  his  brows  to  bind, 
While  his  proud  temples  bend  superbly  down 
As  if  they  felt  e'en  now  the  burden  of  a  crown. 


SARAH  HELENA  WHITMAN. 


281 


Though  a  stern  sorrow  slumbers  in  his  eyes, 

As  if  his  prophet  glance  foresaw  the  day 
When  the  dark  waters  o'er  his  soul  should  rise, 

And  friends  and  lovers  wander  far  away. 
Yet,  the  graced  impress  of  that  floral  mouth 
Breathes  of  love's  golden  dream  and  the  voluptuous  South. 

Peerless  in  beauty  as  the  prophet  star 

That,  in  the  dewy  trances  of  the  dawn, 
Floats  o'er  the  solitary  hills  afar 

And  brings  sweet  tidings  of  the  lingering  morn. 
Or  weary  at  the  day-god's  loitering  wain 
Strikes  on  the  harp  of  light  a  soft  prelusive  strain. 

So  his  wild  harp  with  psaltery  and  shawm 
Awoke  the  nations  in  thick  darkness  furled, 

While  mystic  winds  from  Gilead's  groves  of  balm 
Wafted  its  sweet  Hosannas  through  the  world — 

So,  when  the  day-spring  from  on  high  he  sang. 

With  joy  the  ancient  hills  and  lonely  valleys  rang. 

Ay,  this  is  he — the  minstrel,  prophet,  king, 
Before  whose  arm  princes  and  warriors  sank  ; 

Who  dwelt  beneath  Jehovah's  mighty  wing, 
And  from  the  "  river  of  his  pleasures"  drank ; 

Or  through  the  rent  pavilions  of  the  storm 

Beheld  the  cloud  of  fire  that  veiled  his  awful  form. 

And  now  he  stands  as  when  in  Elah's  vale. 
Where  warriors  set  the  battle  in  array, 


282 


SARAH  HELENA  WHITMAN. 


He  met  the  Titan  in  his  ponderous  mail, 

Whose  haughty  challenge  many  a  summer's  day 
Rang  through  the  border  hills,  while  all  the  host 
Of  faithless  Israel  heard  and  trembled  at  his  boast. 

Till  the  slight  stripling  from  the  mountain  fold 
Stood,  all  unarmed,  amid  their  sounding  shields. 

And  in  his  youth's  first  bloom,  devoutly  bold, 
Dared  the  grim  champion  of  a  thousand  fields ; 

So  stands  he  now,  as  in  Jehovah's  might 

Glorying,  he  met  the  foe  and  won  the  immortal  fight. 


A   STILL   DAY  IN  AUTUMN. 

I  LOVE  to  wander  through  the  woodlands  hoary, 

In  the  soft  light  of  an  autumnal  day, 
When  Summer  gathers  up  her  robes  of  glory 

And  like  a  dream  of  beauty  glides  away. 

How  through  each  loved,  familiar  path  she  lingers. 
Serenely  smiling  through  the  golden  mist. 

Tinting  the  wild-grape  with  her  dewy  fingers 
Till  the  cool  emerald  turns  to  amethyst ; 

Kindling  the  faint  stars  of  the  hazel,*  shining 

To  light  the  gloom  of  Autumn's  mouldering  halls, 

With  hoary  plumes  the  clematis  entwining 

Where  o'er  the  rock  her  withered  garland  falls ! 

*  The  witch-hazel  blossoms  late  in  autumn. 


SARAH  HELENA  WHITMAN. 


Warm  lights  are  on  the  sleepy  uplands  waning 
Beneath  soft  clouds  along  the  horizon  rolled, 

Till  the  slant  sunbeams  through  their  fringes  raining, 
Bathe  all  the  hills  in  melancholy  gold. 

The  moist  winds  breathe  of  crisped  leaves  and  flowers 
In  the  damp  hollows  of  the  woodland  sown, 

Mingling  the  freshness  of  autumnal  showers 
With  spicy  airs  from  cedarn  alleys  blown. 

Beside  the  br^ok  and  on  the  umbered  meadow, 
Where  yellow  fern-tufts  fleck  the  faded  ground, 

With  folded  lids  beneath  their  palmy  shadow 
The  gentian  nods  in  dewy  slumbers  bound. 

Upon  those  soft,  fringed  lids  the  bee  sits  brooding. 
Like  a  fond  lover  loath  to  say  farewell ; 

Or,  with  shut  wings,  through  silken  folds  intruding 
Creeps  near  her  heart  his  drowsy  tale  to  tell. 

The  little  birds  upon  the  hill-side  lonely, 
Flit  noiselessly  along  from  spray  to  spray, 

Silent  as  a  sweet  wandering  thought,  that  only 
Shows  its  bright  wings  and  softly  glides  away. 

The  scentless  flowers,  in  the  warm  sunlight  dreaming. 
Forget  to  breathe  their  fulness  of  delight ; 

And  through  the  tranced  woods  soft  airs  are  streaming. 
Still  as  the  dew-fall  of  the  summer  night. 


284 


SARAH  HELENA  WHITMAN. 


So,  in  my  heart  a  sweet,  unwonted  feeling 
Stirs  like  the  wind  in  ocean's  hollow  shell ; 

Through  all  its  secret  chambers  sadly  stealing. 
Yet  finds  no  word  its  mystic  charm  to  tell. 


A  SEPTEMBER  EVENING,  ON  THE  BANKS  OF  THE 
MOSHASSUCK. 

"Now  to  the  sessions  of  sweet  silent  thought 
I  summon  up  remembrance  of  things  past." 

Shakspeare's  Sonnets. 

Again  September's  golden  day. 

Serenely  still,  intensely  bright, 
Fades  on  the  umbered  hills  away, 

And  melts  into  the  coming  night. 
Again  Moshassuck's  silver  tide 
Reflects  each  green  herb  on  its  side. 
Each  tasselled  wreath  and  tangling  vine 
Whose  tendrils  o'er  its  margin  twine. 

And  standing  on  its  velvet  shore. 

Where  yesternight  with  thee  I  stood, 
I  trace  its  devious  course  once  more 

Far  winding  on  through  vale  and  wood ; 
Now  glimmering  through  yon  golden  mist 
By  the  last  glinting  sunbeams  kissed. 
Now  lost  where  lengthening  shadows  fall 
From  hazel-copse  and  moss-fringed  wall. 


SARAH  HELENA  WHITMAN. 


285 


Near  where  yon  rocks  the  stream  inurn 

The  lonely  gentian  blossoms  still; 
Still  wave  the  star-flower  and  the  fern 

O'er  the  soft  outline  of  the  hill ; 
While  far  aloft,  where  pine  trees  throw 
Their  shade  athwart  the  sunset  glow, 
Thin  vapours  cloud  the  illumined  air 
And  parting  daylight  lingers  there. 

But  ah,  no  longer  thou  art  near 
This  varied  loveliness  to  see, 
And  I,  though  fondly  lingering  here, 
To-night  can  only  think  on  thee. 
The  flowers  which  late  thy  hand  caressed 
Still  lie  unwithered  on  my  breast, 
And  still  thy  footsteps  print  the  shore 
Where  thou  and  I  may  rove  no  more. 

Again  I  hear  the  flute-like  fall. 

Of  water  from  yon  distant  dell; 
The  beetle's  hum,  the  cricket's  call, 
And,  far  away,  that  evening  bell : 
Again,  again  those  sounds  I  hear — 
Yet  oh,  how  desolate  and  drear 
They  seem  to-night — how  like  a  knell 
The  music  of  that  evening  bell! 

Again  the  new  moon  in  the  west. 
Scarce  seen  upon  yon  golden  sky. 


280 


SARAH  HELENA  WHITMAN. 


Hangs  o'er  the  mountain's  purple  crest, 
With  one  pale  planet  trembling  nigh; 
And  beautiful  her  pearly  light 
As  when  we  blessed  her  beams  last  night; 
But  thou  art  o'er  the  far  blue  sea, 
And  I  can  only  think  on  thee. 


I 


ELIZABETH  MARGARET  CHANDLER 

Was  born  at  Centre,  near  Wilmington,  Delaware.  When  an  infant,  she 
was  removed  to  Philadelphia,  and  in  1830,  after  the  death  of  her  parents, 
she  again,  with  her  brother,  removed  to  Lenawee  county,  Michigan.  To 
her  bi'other's  residence  she  gave  the  name  of  Hazlebank.  Here  she  died 
on  the  2d  of  November,  1834,  in  the  twenty-seventh  year  of  her  age. 

THE  BATTLE-FIELD. 

The  last  fading  sunbeam  has  sunk  in  the  ocean, 

And  darkness  has  shrouded  the  forest  and  hill ; 
The  scenes  that  late  rang  with  the  battle's  commotion, 
Now  sleep  'neath  the  moonbeams  serenely  and  still ; 
Yet  light  misty  vapours  above  them  still  hover, 
And  dimly  the  pale  beaming  crescent  discover, 
Though  all  the  stern  clangour  of  conflict  is  over, 

And  hushed  the  wild  trump-note  that  echoed  so  shrill. 

Around  me  the  steed  and  the  rider  are  lying, 

To  wake  at  the  bugle's  loud  summons  no  more — 
And  here  is  the  banner  that  o'er  them  was  flying, 

Torn,  trampled,  and  sullied,  with  earth  and  with  gore. 
With  morn — where  the  conflict  the  wildest  was  roaring. 
Where  sabres  were  clashing,  and  death-shot  were  pouring, 
That  banner  was  proudest  and  loftiest  soaring — 
Now,  standard  and  bearer  alike  are  no  more ! 

All  hushed !  not  a  breathing  of  life  from  the  numbers 
That  scattered  around  me  so  heavily  sleep, — 

Hath  the  cup  of  red  wine  lent  its  fumes  to  their  slumbers, 
And  stained  their  bright  garments  with  crimson  so  deep  ? 

37 


288  ELIZABETH  MARGARET  CHANDLER. 

Ah  no !  these  are  not  like  gay  revellers  sleeping — 
The  night-winds,  unfelt,  o'er  their  bosoms  are  sweeping; 
Ignobly  their  plumes  o'er  the  damp  ground  are  creeping ; 
And  dews,  all  uncared  for,  their  bright  falchions  steep. 

Bright  are  they  ?  at  morning  they  were — ay,  at  morning 
Yon  forms  were  proud  warriors,  with  hearts  beating  high, 

The  smiles  of  stern  valour  their  lips  were  adorning. 
And  triumph  flashed  out  from  the  glance  of  each  eye ! 

But  now — sadly  altered,  the  evening  hath  found  them ! 

They  care  not  for  conquest,  disgrace  cannot  wound  them, 

Distinct  but  in  name,  from  the  earth  spread  around  them. 
Beside  their  red  broadswords,  unconscious,  they  lie. 

How  still  is  the  scene  !  save  when  dismally  whooping, 
The  night-bird  afar  hails  the  gathering  gloom ; 

Or  a  heavy  sound  tells  that  their  comrades  are  scooping 
A  couch,  where  the  sleepers  may  rest  in  the  tomb. 

Alas !  ere  yon  planet  again  shall  be  lighted. 

What  hearts  shall  be  broken,  what  hopes  will  be  blighted ! 

How  many,  'midst  sorrow's  dark  storm-clouds  benighted. 
Shall  envy,  e'en  while  they  lament,  for  their  doom ! 

Oh  War !  when  thou  'rt  clothed  in  the  garments  of  glory, 

When  Freedom  has  lighted  thy  torch  at  her  shrine, 
And  proudly  thy  deeds  are  emblazoned  in  story. 

We  think  not,  we  feel  not,  what  horrors  are  thine. 
But  oh !  when  the  victors  and  vanquished  have  parted, 
When  lonely  we  stand  on  the  war-ground  deserted. 
And  think  on  the  dead,  and  on  those  broken-hearted. 
Thy  blood-sprinkled  laurel- wreath  ceases  to  shine. 


EDITH  MAY. 


This  is  the  nom  de  plume  of  one  of  the  most  prontiising  female  poets, 
not  only  of  our  own,  but  of  any  country.  Her  poems,  written  as  they  were 
at  a  very  early  age,  have  all  the  strength  and  finish  of  a  more  experienced 
hand.  She  is  a  native  of  Philadelphia,  but  resides  at  present  with  her 
parents,  in  the  northern  part  of  Pennsylvania. 

COUNT  JULIO. 

'Mid  piles  beneath  whose  fretted  cornices 
Echo  still  babbles  of  a  glorious  past, 
Dwelt  Julio,  the  miser. 

Nobly  born, 
Reared  amid  palaces,  and  trained  from  youth 
To  the  gay  vices  of  a  liberal  age, 
How  came  it  now,  that  year  on  year  sped  on. 
To  leave  the  proud  count  in  his  silent  halls. 
Hoarding  the  gold  once  lavished  ? 

Young  and  fair. 
The  haughtiest  noble  of  the  Roman  court, 
The  stateliest  of  the  high-born  throng  that  graced 
Its  princely  revels,  he  had  left  the  feast, 
•Bidding  the  bright  wine  that  he  quaffed  in  parting 
Be  to  him  thence  accursed.    Never  more 
Checked  he  his  courser  by  the  Tiber's  bank. 


290 


EDITH  MAY. 


Nor  struck  the  sweet  chords  of  his  late,  nor  trod 

Glad  measures  with  the  bright-lipped  Roman  dames — 

And,  from  the  lintels  of  his  banquet-hall, 

The  spider  balanced  on  its  gossamer  thread. 

Dust  heaped  the  silken  couches,  and  where  swept 

Golden-fringed  curtains  to  the  chequered  floor. 

The  rat  gnawed  silently,  and  gray  moths  fed 

On  the  rich  produce  of  the  Asian  loom. 

Men  shunned  his  threshold,  and  his  palace  doors 

Creaked  on  their  rusty  hinges.    Prince  and  peasant 

Alike  turned  coldly  from  his  coming  step — 

The  very  beggar,  that  at  noontide  lay 

Basking  'neath  sunlight  in  the  quiet  street. 

Stretched  not  his  hand  forth  as  the  miser  passed ! 

He  cared  not  for  their  scorn ;  man's  breath  to  him 

Was  like  the  wind  that  sweeps  a  scathed  oak 

And  finds  no  leaf  to  flutter !    Fate  had  left 

Only  two  things  on  earth  for  him  to  love — 

The  gold  he  heaped,  and  the  fair,  motherless  child. 

Who  by  his  side  grew  up  to  womanhood. 

And  these  he  worshipped,  loathing  all  things  else. 

His  couch  was  ruder  than  a  cloistered  monk's ; 

Bianca's  head  was  pillowed  upon  down : 

His  fare  was  scanty  and  his  raiment  coarse ; 

But  she  was  clad  like  princes,  and  her  board 

Heaped  with  the  costliest  viands !    From  the  world 

He  shrank  abhorrent,  but  Bianca  shone 

Proudest  and  fairest  in  a  brilliant  court. 

Her  youth  had  been  most  lonely.    By  his  side 


EDITH  MAY. 


291 


To  watch  the  piling  of  the  golden  heaps 

He  told  so  greedily ;  to  play  alone 

In  gardens  where  no  hand  had  put  aside 

The  flowers  and  weeds  that  in  one  tangled  woof 

Hung  o'er  the  fountain's  dusty  bed,  and  crept 

Round  the  tall  porticoes ;  perchance  to  sit 

Hour  after  hour,  all  silent  at  his  feet, 

Twining  her  small  arms  and  her  baby  throat 

With  the  rare  treasures  that  his  caskets  held, — 

Rubies  and  pearls  and  flashing  carcanets 

Her  costly  playthings — all  companionless. 

These  were  her  childish  pastimes.    Years  wore  on, 

Till  the  close  dawn  of  perfect  womanhood 

Flushed  in  her  cheek  and  brightened  in  her  eye — 

And  the  girl  learned  to  know  how  fair  the  face 

Those  dingy  walls  had  cloistered  from  the  sun ; 

To  bear  her  head  more  proudly,  and  to  step, 

If  not  so  lightly,  with  a  queenlier  tread. 

Love-songs  were  framed  for  her ;  her  midnight  lest 

Was  broken  by  the  sound  of  silver  lutes. 

And  the  young  gallants  caracoled  their  steeds 

Gaily  at  eve  beneath  her  balcony ! 

She  went  forth  to  the  world,  and  careless  lips 

Told  her  the  shame  that  was  her  heritage,  . 

And  scornful  fingers  pointed  as  she  passed 

To  the  rare  jewels  and  the  broidered  robes 

That  decked  the  miser's  daughter.    Envious  tongues 

Gilded  anew  the  half-forgotten  tale. 

And  it  became  the  marvel  of  all  Rome ! 


'292 


EDITH  MAY. 


Thus,  till  the  diadem  of  gems  and  gold 
Burned  on  her  white  brow  like  a  circling  flame, 
And  she  went  writhing  home,  to  weep,  to  loathe 
The  sordid  parent  who  had  brought  this  blight 
Upon  the  joyous  promise  of  her  youth ! 

It  was  the  still  noon  of  a  summer  night. 

When  the  young  countess  from  her  father's  roof 

Fled — with  a  noble  of  the  Roman  court ! 

Morn  came,  and  through  the  empty  corridors, 

The  balconies,  the  gardens,  the  wide  halls. 

In  vain  they  sought  her!    Noon  passed  by,  and  then 

The  truth  was  guessed,  not  spoken !  Silently, 

Count  Julio  trod  the  marble  staircases. 

And  pausing  by  the  door  that  once  was  hers, 

Stood  a  brief  moment,  and  then,  pressing  on. 

Stepped  through  the  quiet  chamber.    All  was  still, 

Bearing  no  traces  of  her  recent  flight ! 

Here  lay  a  slipper,  here  a  silken  robe. 

And  here  a  lute  thrown  down,  with  a  white  glove 

Flung  carelessly  beside  it !    Still  the  air 

Breathed  of  the  delicate  perfumes  she  had  loved. 

He  glanced  but  once  around  the  empty  room. 
Then  from  the  mirrored  and  silk-draperied  walls 
Cast  his  eye  downward  o'er  his  shrunken  form. 
His  meagre  garments.    Few  the  words  he  spake, 
And  muttered  low.    But  in  them  came  a  curse, 
So  blasphemous,  so  hideous  in  its  depth 
Of  impotent  rage,  that  they  who  at  his  side 


EDITH  MAY. 


Yet  stood  in  lingering  pity,  with  blanched  lips 
Turned  to  the  threshold,  and  crept  shuddering  forth  ■ 

He  breathed  his  sorrow  to  no  human  ear. 

But  left  it  charnelled  in  his  heart,  to  breed 

Corruption  there.    None  knew  how  wearil)'' 

The  hours  passed  on  beneath  those  lonely  walls ; 

None  saw  him,  when  by  midnight  still  a  watcher 

He  brooded  o'er  his  anguish,  pale  and  faint. 

Starting  and  trembling,  as  inconstantly 

The  night  winds  swayed  the  curtains  to  and  fro. 

Fancying  the  rustle  of  her  silken  robe. 

Her  footfall  on  the  staircase !    Time  sped  on 

To  strike  the  dulled  bloom  from  his  cheek,  and  scare 

The  soul  that  once  had  queened  it  on  his  brow  ! 

A  bent  and  wan  old  man,  upon  whose  breast 

Hung  the  neglected  masses  of  his  beard — 

With  tremulous  hands,  habitually  clenched, 

Till  the  sharp  nails  wore  furrows  in  the  palms — 

Thus  stole  he  forth  at  even,  and  with  eyes 

Lost  in  the  golden  future  of  his  dreams. 

Passed  through  the  busy  crowds,  unmarked,  unheeding. 

Once  had  he  looked  upon  Bianca's  face ; 
Once  had  she  knelt  before  him,  with  her  child 
Gasping  upon  her  breast,  and  prayed  for  succour ! 
The  unwept  victim  of  a  drunken  brawl 
Her  lord  had  fallen,  and  the  palace  walls 
That  owned  her  mistress  were  deserted  now  ! 
She  had  braved  fear  and  hunger,  till  her  babe 


294 


EDITH  MAY. 


Wailed  dying  on  her  bosom ;  and  so  urged, 
Pride,  shame,  forgotten  in  a  mother's  love, 
Clung  to  his  knees  for  pardon !    But  in  vain ; 
He  cursed  her  as  she  knelt,  bade  her  go  forth. 
And  'mid  the  loathsome  suppliants  that  unveil 
Disease  and  suffering  to  the  eye  of  wealth, 
Bare  too  her  anguish  to  the  glance  of  pity ; 
Then,  as  she  lingered,  spurned  her  from  his  feet 
With  words  that  chilled  her  agony  to  dread. 
And  drove  her  thence  in  horror ! 

From  that  day 
His  very  blood  seemed  charged  with  bitterness ! 
Miser  and  usurer  both,  upon  the  wrecks 
Of  others'  happiness  he  built  his  own ; 
His  name  became  accursed  in  the  land, 
And  with  his  withering  soul  his  body  grew 
Scarce  human  in  its  ghastly  hideousness  ! 

The  bulb  enshrouds  the  lily ;  and  within 
The  most  unsightly  form  may  folded  lie 
The  white  wings  of  an  angel.    But  in  him 
Seemed  all  the  sweet  humanities  of  life 
Coldly  encharnelled ;  and  no  hand  divine 
Rolled  from  his  breast  the  weary  weight  of  sin, 
To  bid  them  go  forth  unto  suffering  man 
Like  gracious  ministers. 

And  she,  alas ! 
•  Whom  he  had  madly  driven  forth  to  ruin — 
Earth  hath  no  words  to  tell  how  dark  the  change 


EDITH  MAY. 


295 


That  clothed  her  fallen  spirit.    O'er  the  waste 
Of  want  and  horror  that  engulfed  her  fortunes. 
She  had  sent  forth  the  white  dove,  purity, 
And  it  returned  no  more.    The  Roman  dames 
Took  not  her  name  upon  their  scornful  lips. 
Her  form  became  a  model  for  the  artist ; 
And  her  rare  face  went  down  to  future  ages, 
Limned  on  his  canvass.    Ye  may  mark  it  yet, 
In  the  long  galleries  of  the  Vatican, 
Varied,  but  still  the  same.    Now  robed  in  pride, 
As  monarchs  in  their  garbs  of  Tyrian  purple. 
Now,  with  a  Magdalen's  blue  mantle,  drawn 
Over  the  bending  forehead.    As  the  marble 
Sleeps  in  unsullied  whiteness  on  the  tomb. 
Taking  no  taint  from  the  foul  thing  it  covers, 
Her  beauty  bore  no  blight  from  guilt,  but  lived 
A  monument  that  made  her  name  immortal. 

Night  had  uprisen,  clothed  with  storms  and  gloom ; 

No  taper  lit  the  solitary  hall, 

And  to  and  fro,  with  feeble  steps,  its  lord 

Paced  through  the  darkness.    Midnight  came,  and  then 

Pausing  beside  the  groaning  door,  that  weighed 

Its  rusty  hinge,  Count  Julio,  crouching,  peered 

Into  the  gloom  without ;  for  stealthy  feet, 

Whose  echo  struck  upon  his  wary  ear. 

Had  crossed  the  lower  halls ;  and  slowly  now. 

Trod  the  great  staircase. 

'T  was  no  robber's  step ; 
Faint,  slow  and  halting,  ever  and  anon, 

38 


296 


EDITH  MAY. 


As  though  in  weariness.    His  sharpened  sense 
Caught,  'mid  the  fitful  pauses  of  the  wind, 
The  headlong  dashing  of  the  driven  rain, 
A  sound  of  painful  breathing,  nay,  of  sobs — 
Bursting,  and  then  as  suddenly  suppressed. 

Shuddering  he  stood ;  and  as  the  storm's  red  bolt 
Leapt  through  the  windows — lightening,  as  it  passed 
A  dusky  shape,  that  cowered  at  the  flash  — 
He  shrank  within  the  chamber,  and  once  more 
Listened  in  silence. 

Nearer  came  the  sound ; 
A  tall  form  crossed  the  threshold,  and  threw  back 
What  seemed  a  heavy  mantle.    Then  again. 
Glanced  the  pale  lightning,  and  Count  Julio  knew, 
By  the  long  hair  that  swept  her  garment's  hem, 
Bianca. 

They,  who  through  that  night  of  fear. 
Kept  watch  with  storm  and  terror  till  the  dawn. 
Bore  its  dark  memories  even  to  the  tomb  — 
For  shrieks  and  cries  seemed  mingled  with  the  wind 
And  voices,  as  of  warring  fiends,  prevailed 
O'er  its  low  mutterings.    Morn  awoke  at  last ; 
And  with  its  earliest  gleam.  Count  Julio  crept 
Out  through  his  palace  gardens.    Swollen  drops 
Hung  from  the  curved  roofs  of  the  porticoes ; 
His  footsteps  dashed  them  from  the  earth-bowed  leaves. 
And  from  the  tangles  of  the  matted  grass  — 
But  over-head,  the  day  broke  gloriously. 


EDITH  MAY. 


297 


Where  once  a  fountain  to  the  sunlight  leapt, 

A  marble  naiad,  by  its  weedy  bed. 

Stood  on  her  pedestal.    With  hand  outstretched, 

She  grasped  a  hollowed  shell,  now  brimming  o'er ; 

While  a  green  vine  that  round  her  arm  had  crept. 

Rose  serpent-like,  and  in  the  chalice  dipped 

Its  curling  tendrils.    Thither  turned  his  eye. 

Just  as  the  red  up-rising  of  the  morn 

Flushed  the  pale  statue,  and  crept  brightening  down. 

Even  to  its  very  base.    Mantled  and  prone, — 

A  heap  that  scarcely  seemed  a  human  form 

Crouched  in  the  shadow,  and  with  tottering  feet 

The  old  man  hurried  onward.  Motionless, 

It  stirred  not  at  his  footsteps — nearer  still  — 

He  marked  a  white  face,  upward  turned,  clenched  hands 

Locked  in  the  hair  that  swept  its  ghastly  brow. 

Shading  his  weak  eyes  from  the  blinding  sun. 

Cowering  in  trembling  horror  to  the  earth  — 

Still  on  he  crept ;  then  bending  softly  down, 

Spake  in  a  smothered  voice  : — "  Hist !  hist !  Bianca  ?" 

Oh,  mockery  !    The  ear  that  he  had  filled 
AVith  curses,  woke  not  to  the  tones  of  love. 
The  breast  that  he  had  spurned  from  him,  heaved  not 
At  his  wild  anguish.    Death  had  done  its  work ; 
The  tempest  had  been  merciless  as  the  parent 
Who  drove  her  forth  to  meet  it ;  and  the  flash 
Of  its  red  eye  more  withering  than  his  scorn. 
Shunned  both  in  penitence  and  guilt — forsaken 
By  those  who  only  prized  her  for  the  beauty 


298 


EDITH  MAY. 


Time,  and  perchance  remorse,  had  touched  with  blight — 
Drenched  with  the  rain — all  breathless  with  the  storm  — 
Homeless  and  hopeless,  she  had  crept  to  him 
Once  more  a  suppliant ;  and,  spurned  rudely  forth, 
Here  had  lain  down  despairing,  and  so  perished. 


A  POET'S  LOVE. 

The  stag  leaps  free  in  the  forest's  heart, 

But  thy  step  is  lighter,  my  love,  my  bride ! 
Light  as  the  quick-footed  breezes  that  part 

The  plumy  ferns  on  the  mountain  side. 
Swift  as  the  zephyrs  that  come  and  pass 
O'er  the  waveless  lake  and  the  billowy  grass ; 
I  hear  thy  voice  where  the  white  spray  gleams, 
In  the  one-toned  bells  of  the  rippled  streams. 
In  the  shivering  boughs  of  the  aspen  tree. 

In  the  wind  that  stirreth  the  silvery  pine, 
In  the  shell  that  moans  of  the  distant  sea — 

Never  was  voice  so  sweet  as  thine ! 
Never  a  sound  through  the  even  dim 
Came  half  so  soft  as  thy  vesper  hymn. 

I  have  followed  fast  from  the  lark's  low  nest 
Thy  breezy  step  to  the  mountain  crest ; 
The  livelong  day  I  have  wandered  on. 
Till  the  stars  were  up,  the  twilight  gone ; 


EDITH  MAY. 


299 


Ever  unwearied  where  thou  hast  roved, 
Fairest,  and  purest,  and  best  beloved ! 
I  have  felt  thy  kiss  in  the  leafy  aisle, 

And  thy  breath  astir  in  my  waving  hair, 
I  have  met  the  light  of  thy  haunting  smile. 

In  the  deep,  still  woods,  and  the  sunny  air, 
For  thou  lookest  down  from  the  bending  skies, 
And  the  earth  is  glad  with  thy  laughing  eyes. 

When  my  heart  is  sad  and  my  pulse  beats  low. 
Whose  touch  so  light  on  my  burning  brow  ? 
Who  Cometh  in  dreams  to  my  midnight  sleep  ? 

Who  bendeth  over  my  noonday  rest  ? 
Who  singeth  me  songs  in  the  forest  deep, 

Laying  my  head  to  her  gentle  breast  ? 
When  life  grows  dim  to  my  weary  eye. 
When  joy  departeth  and  sorrow  is  nigh. 
Who,  'neath  the  track  of  the  stars,  save  thee, 
Speaketh  or  singeth  of  hope  to  me  ? 

There  comes  a  time  when  the  morn  shall  rise, 

Yet  charm  no  smile  to  thy  filmed  eyes ; 

There  comes  a  time  when  thou  liest  low. 

With  the  roses  dead  on  thy  frozen  brow, 

With  a  pall  hung  over  thy  tranced  rest. 

And  the  pulse  asleep  in  thy  silent  breast. 

There  shall  come  a  dirge  through  the 'valleys  drear, 

And  a  white-robed  priest  to  thine  icy  bier ; 

His  lip  is  cold,  but  his  dim  eyes  weep, 

And  he  maketh  thy  grave  where  the  snow  falls  deep. 


300 


EDITH  MAY. 


Woe  is  me  when  I  watch  and  pray 

For  the  lightest  tread  of  thy  coming  foot. 

For  the  softest  note  of  thy  summer  lay, 

For  the  faintest  chord  of  thy  vine-strung  lute ! 

Woe  is  me  when  the  storms  sweep  by, 

And  the  mocking  winds  are  my  sole  reply ! 


SUMMER. 

The  early  Spring  hath  gone ;  I  see  her  stand 

Afar  off,  on  the  hills — white  clouds,  like  doves, 

Yoked  by  the  south  wind  to  her  opal  car, 

And  at  her  feet  a  lion  and  a  lamb 

Couched  side  by  side.    Irresolute  Spring  hath  gone  ! 

And  Summer  comes,  like  Psyche,  zephyr-borne 

To  her  sweet  land  of  pleasures. 

She  is  here ! 
Amid  the  distant  vales  she  tarried  long ; 
But  she  hath  come ;  oh,  joy !  for  I  have  heard 
Her  many-chorded  harp  the  livelong  day 
Sounding  from  plains  and  meadows,  where  of  late 
Rattled  the  hail's  sharp  arrows,  and  where  came 
The  wild  north  wind,  careering  like  a  steed 
Unconscious  of  the  rein.    She  hath  gone  forth 
Into  the  forest,  and  its  poised  leaves 
Are  platformed  for  the  zephyr's  dancing  feet. 
Under  its  green  pavilions  she  hath  reared 
Most  beautiful  things.    The  Spring's  pale  orphans  lie 


EDITH  MAY. 


Sheltered  upon  her  breast ;  the  bird's  loved  song 
At  morn,  outsoars  his  pinion,  and  when  waves 
Put  on  Night's  silver  harness,  the  still  air 
Is  musical  with  soft  tones.    She  hath  baptized 
Earth  with  her  joyful  weeping ;  she  hath  blessed 
All  that  do  rest  beneath  the  wing  of  Heaven, 
And  all  that  hail  its  smile.    Her  ministry 
Is  typical  of  love ;  she  hath  disdained 
No  gentle  office,  but  doth  bend  to  twine 
The  grape's  light  tendrils,  and  to  pluck  apart 
The  heart-leaves  of  the  rose.    She  doth  not  pass 
Unmindful  the  bruised  vine,  nor  scorn  to  lift 
The  trodden  weed,  and  when  her  lowlier  children 
Faint  by  the  wayside,  like  worn  passengers. 
She  is  a  gentle  mother ;  all  night  long 
Bathing  their  pale  brows  with  her  healing  dews ; 
The  hours  are  spendthrifts  of  her  wealth ;  the  days 
Are  dowered  with  her  beauty. 

Priestess !  queen ! 
Amid  the  ruined  temples  of  the  wood 
She  hath  rebuilt  her  altars,  and  called  back 
The  scattered  choristers,  and  over  aisles 
Where  the  slant  sunshine,  like  a  curious  stranger. 
Glided  through  arches  and  bare  choirs,  hath  spread 
A  roof  magnificent.    She  hath  awaked 
Her  oracle,  that,  dumb  and  paralyzed, 
Slept  with  the  torpid  serpents  of  the  lightning. 
Bidding  his  dread  voice — Nature's  mightiest — 
Speak  mystically  of  all  hidden  things 
To  the  attentive  spirit.    There  is  laid 


302 


EDITH  MAY. 


No  knife  upon  her  sacrificial  altar ; 
And  from  her  lips  there  comes  no  pealing  triumph. 
But  to  those  crystal  halls,  where  silence  sits 
Enchanted,  hath  arisen  a  mingled  strain 
Of  music,  delicate  as  the  breath  of  buds ; 
And  on  her  shrines  the  virgin  hours  lay 
Odours  and  exquisite  dyes,  like  gifts  that  kings 
Send  from  the  spicy  gardens  of  the  East ! 


ELIZA  TOWNSEND. 


Miss  Townsend  is  a  native  and  resident  of  Boston.  The  following  has 
been  justly  praised  as  one  of  the  finest  poems  that  enrich  our  literature. 

INCOMPREHENSIBILITY  OF  GOD. 

"I  go  forward,  but  he  is  not  there;  and  backward,  but  I  cannot  perceive  Him." 

Where  art  thou? — Thou  !  Source  and  Support  of  all 

That  is  or  seen,  or  felt ;  Thyself  unseen, 

Unfelt,  unknown, — alas !  unknowable ! 

I  look  abroad  among  thy  works — the  sky, 

Vast,  distant,  glorious  with  its  world  of  suns, — 

Life-giving  earth, — and  ever-moving  main — 

And  speaking  winds, — and  ask  if  these  are  Thee  ! 

The  stars  that  twinkle  on  the  eternal  hills, 

The  restless  tide's  out-going  and  return. 

The  omnipresent  and  deep-breathing  air — 

Though  hailed  as  gods  of  old,  and  only  less — 

Are  not  the  Power  I  seek ;  are  thine,  not  Thee ! 

I  ask  Thee  from  the  past ;  if  in  the  years 

Since  first  intelligence  could  search  its  source, 

Or  in  some  former  unremembered  being, 

(If  such,  perchance,  were  mine)  did  they  behold  Thee  ? 

And  next  interrogate  futurity — 

So  fondly  tenanted  with  better  things 

Than  e'er  experience  owned — but  both  are  mute ; 

And  past  and  future,  vocal  on  all  else, 

So  full  of  memories  and  phantasies, 

39 


ELIZA  TOWNSEND. 

Are  deaf  and  speechless  here !    Fatigued  I  turn 

From  all  vain  parley  with  the  elements ; 

And  close  mine  eyes,  and  bid  the  thought  turn  inward 

From  each  material  thing  its  anxious  quest, 

If,  in  the  stillness  of  the  waiting  soul, 

He  may  vouchsafe  himself — Spirit  to  spirit ! 

0  Thou,  at  once  most  dreaded  and  desired. 

Pavilioned  still  in  darkness  wilt  thou  hide  thee  ? 

What  though  the  rash  request  be  fraught  with  fate, 

Nor  human  eye  may  look  on  thine  and  live  ? 

Welcome  the  penalty !  let  that  come  now, 

Which  soon  or  late  must  come.    For  light  like  this 

Who  would  not  dare  to  die  ? 

Peace,  my  proud  aim, 
And  hush  the  wish  that  knows  not  what  it  asks. 
Await  His  will,  who  hath  appointed  this, 
With  every  other  trial.    Be  that  will 
Done  now,  as  ever.    For  thy  curious  search. 
And  unprepared  solicitude  to  gaze 
On  Him — the  Unrevealed — learn  hence,  instead, 
To  temper  highest  hope  with  humbleness. 
Pass  thy  novitiate  in  these  outer  courts. 
Till  rent  the  veil,  no  longer  separating 
The  Holiest  of  all — as  erst,  disclosing 
A  brighter  dispensation ;  whose  results 
Ineffable,  interminable,  tend 
E'en  to  the  perfecting  thyself — thy  kind — 
Till  meet  for  that  sublime  beatitude. 
By  the  firm  promise  of  a  voice  from  Heaven 
Pledged  to  the  pure  in  heart ! 


ELIZABETH  C.  KINNEY. 


Mrs.  Kinney  is  a  native  of  New  York,  and  the  daughter  of  David  L. 
Dodge,  Esq.,  who  was  for  many  years  an  eminent  merchant  of  that  city. 
In  1840  she  was  married  to  Mr.  William  B.  Kinney,  a  gentleman  of  the 
highest  intellectual  acquirements,  and  widely  known  as  the  able  Editor  of 
"  The  Newark  Daily  Advertiser."  Mrs.  Kinney's  poems,  until  within  a 
year,  have  chiefly  appeared  in  the  "  Knickerbocker,"  since  when  she  has 
contributed  to  "  Graham's  Magazine." 

SONNET. 

Th'  Autumnal  glories  all  have  passed  away ! 

The  forest  leaves  no  more  in  hectic  red 
Give  glowing  tokens  of  their  brief  decay, 

But  scattered  lie,  or  rustle  to  the  tread 

Like  whispered  warnings  from  the  mouldering  dead ; 
The  naked  trees  stretch  out  their  arms  all  day, 

And  each  bald  hill-top  lifts  its  reverend  head 
As  if  for  some  new  covering  to  pray. 

Come,  Winter,  then,  and  spread  thy  robe  of  white 
Above  the  desolation  of  this  scene  ; 

And  when  the  sun  with  gems  shall  make  it  bright, 
Or,  when  its  snowy  folds  by  midnight's  queen 

Are  silvered  o'er  with  a  serener  light, 
We  '11  cease  to  sigh  for  Summer's  living  green. 


306 


ELIZABETH  C.  KINNEY. 


TO  THE  EAGLE. 

Imperial  bird !  that  soarest  to  the  sky — 
Cleaving  through  clouds  and  storms  thine  upward  way — 

Or,  fixing  steadfastly  that  dauntless  eye. 
Dost  face  the  great,  elfulgent  god  of  day ! 

Proud  monarch  of  the  feathery  tribes  of  air ! 
My  soul  exulting  marks  thy  bold  career, 

Up,  through  the  azure  fields,  to  regions  fair. 
Where,  bathed  in  light,  thy  pinions  disappear. 

Thou,  with  the  gods,  upon  Olympus  dwelt. 
The  emblem  and  the  favourite  bird  of  Jove — 

And  godlike  power  in  thy  broad  wings  hast  felt 
Since  first  they  spread  o'er  land  and  sea  to  rove ; 

From  Ida's  top  the  Thunderer's  piercing  sight 
Flashed  on  the  hosts  which  Ilium  did  defy ; 

So,  from  thy  eyrie  on  the  beetling  height 
Shoot  down  the  lightning  glances  of  thine  eye ! 

From  his  Olympian  throne  Jove  stooped  to  earth 
For  ends  inglorious  in  the  God  of  gods ! 

Leaving  the  beauty  of  celestial  birth, 
To  rob  Humanity's  less  fair  abodes : 

Oh,  passion  more  rapacious  than  divine. 
That  stole  the  peace  of  innocence  away ! 

So,  when  descend  those  tireless  wings  of  thine, 
They  stoop  to  make  defencelessness  their  prey. 


ELIZABETH  C.  KINNEY. 


Lo !  where  thou  comest  from  the  realms  afar ! 
Thy  strong  wings  whir  like  some  huge  bellows'  breath 

Swift  falls  thy  fiery  eyeball,  like  a  star, 
And  dark  thy  shadow  as  the  pall  of  death ! 

But  thou  hast  marked  a  tall  and  reverend  tree. 
And  now  thy  talons  clinch  yon  leafless  limb ; 

Before  thee  stretch  the  sandy  shore  and  sea. 
And  sails,  like  ghosts,  move  in  the  distance  dim. 

Fair  is  the  scene  !  Yet  thy  voracious  eye 
Drinks  not  its  beauty ;  but  with  bloody  glare 

Watches  the  wild-fowl  idly  floating  by, 
Or  snow-white  sea-gull  winnowing  the  air  : 

Oh,  pitiless  is  thine  unerring  beak ! 
Quick,  as  the  wings  of  thought,  thy  pinions  fall — 

Then  bear  their  victim  to  the  mountain-peak 
Where  clamorous  eaglets  flutter  at  thy  call. 

Seaward  again  thou  turn'st  to  chase  the  storm, 
Where  winds  and  waters  furiously  roar ! 

Above  the  doomed  ship  thy  boding  form 
Is  coming,  Fate's  dark  shadow  cast  before  ! 

The  billows  that  engulf  man's  sturdy  frame 
As  sport  to  thy  careering  pinions  seem  ; 

And  though  to  silence  sinks  the  sailor's  name. 
His  end  is  told  in  thy  relentless  scream ! 

Where  the  great  cataract  sends  up  to  Heaven 
Its  sprayey  incense  in  perpetual  cloud. 


ELIZABETH  C.  KINNEY. 

Thy  wings  in  twain  the  sacred  bow  have  riven, 
And  onward  sailed  irreverently  proud ! 

Unflinching  bird !    No  frigid  clime  congeals 
The  fervid  blood  that  riots  in  thy  veins ; 

No  torrid  sun  thine  upborne  nature  feels — 
The  North,  the  South,  alike  are  thy  domains. 

Emblem  of  all  that  can  endure,  or  dare, 
Art  thou,  bold  eagle,  in  thy  hardihood ! 

Emblem  of  Freedom,  when  thou  cleav'st  the  air 
Emblem  of  Tyranny,  when  bathed  in  blood! 

Thou  wert  the  genius  of  Rome's  sanguine  wars 
Heroes  have  fought  and  freely  bled  for  thee ; 

And  here,  above  our  glorious  "  stripes  and  stars, 
We  hail  thy  signal  wings  of  Liberty  ! 

The  poet  sees  in  thee  a  type  sublime 
Of  his  far-reaching,  high-aspiring  Art ! 

His  fancy  seeks  with  thee  each  starry  clime, 
And  thou  art  on  the  signet  of  his  heart. 

Be  still  the  symbol  of  a  spirit  free. 
Imperial  bird  !  to  unborn  ages  given — 

And  to  my  soul,  that  it  may  soar  like  thee. 
Steadfastly  looking  in  the  eye  of  Heaven. 


ELIZABETH  C.  KINNEY. 


309 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  SONG. 

Eternal  Fame !  thy  great  rewards, 

Throughout  all  time,  shall  be 
The  right  of  those  old  master-bards 

Of  Greece  and  Italy. 
And  of  fair  Albion's  favoured  isle. 
Where  Poesy's  celestial  smile 

Hath  shone  for  ages,  gilding  bright 
Her  rocky  cliffs  and  ancient  towers. 
And  cheering  this  new  world  of  ours 

With  a  reflected  light. 

Yet,  though  there  be  no  path  untrod 

By  that  immortal  race — 
Who  walked  with  Nature,  as  with  God, 

And  saw  her  face  to  face  — 
No  living  truth  by  them  unsung — 
No  thought  that  hath  not  found  a  tongue 

In  some  strong  lyre  of  olden  time ; 
Must  every  tuneful  lute  be  still 
That  may  not  give  a  world  the  thrill 

Of  their  great  harp  sublime? 

Oh,  not  while  beating  hearts  rejoice 

In  Music's  simplest  tone, 
And  hear  in  Nature's  every  voice 

An  echo  to  their  own ! 
Not  till  these  scorn  the  little  rill 
That  runs  rejoicing  from  the  hill, 


ELIZABETH  C.  KINNEY. 

Or  the  soft,  melancholy  glide 
Of  some  deep  stream,  through  glen  and  glade, 
Because  'tis  not  the  thunder  made 

By  ocean's  heaving  tide ! 

The  hallowed  lilies  of  the  field 

In  glory  are  arrayed. 
And  timid,  blue-eyed  violets  yield 

Their  fragrance  to  the  shade ; 
Nor  do  the  wayside  flowers  conceal 
Those  modest  charms  that  sometimes  steal 

Upon  the  weary  traveller's  eyes 
Like  angels,  spreading  for  his  feet 
A  carpet,  filled  with  odours  sweet. 

And  decked  with  heavenly  dyes. 

Thus  let  the  affluent  Soul  of  Song— 

That  all  with  flowers  adorns  — 
Strew  life's  uneven  path  along, 

And  hide  its  thousand  thorns : 
Oh,  many  a  sad  and  weary  heart. 
That  treads  a  noiseless  way  apart. 

Has  blessed  the  humble  poet's  name, 
For  fellowship,  refined  and  free. 
In  meek  wild-flowers  of  poesy. 

That  asked  no  higher  fame ! 

And  pleasant  as  the  waterfall 

To  one  by  deserts  bound  — 
Making  the  air  all  musical 

With  cool,  inviting  sound — 


ELIZABETH  C.  KINNEY. 


511 


Is  oft  some  unpretending  strain 
Of  rural  song,  to  him  whose  brain 

Is  fevered  in  the  sordid  strife 
That  Avarice  breeds  'twixt  man  and  man, 
While  moving  on,  in  caravan, 

Across  the  sands  of  Life. 

Yet,  not  for  these  alone  he  sings ; 

The  poet's  breast  is  stirred 
As  by  the  spirit  that  takes  wings 

And  carols  in  the  bird! 
He  thinks  not  of  a  future  name, 
Nor  whence  his  inspiration  came. 

Nor  whither  goes  his  warbled  song; 
As  Joy  itself  delights  in  joy — 
His  soul  finds  life  in  its  employ. 

And  grows  by  utterance  strong. 


SONNET: 

A    WINTER  NIGHT. 

How  calm,  how  solemn,  how  sublime  the  scene ! 
The  Moon  in  full-orbed  glory  sails  above, 
And  stars  in  myriads  around  her  move ; 

Each  looking  down  with  watchful  eye  serene 
On  earth,  which  in  a  snowy  shroud  arrayed. 
And  still,  as  in  a  dreamless  sleep 't  were  laid, 

Saddens  the  spirit  with  its  deathlike  mien :  — 

40 


ELIZABETH  C.  KINNEY. 

Yet  doth  it  charm  the  eye — its  gaze  still  hold ; 

Just  as  the  face  of  one  we  loved,  when  cold, 
And  pale,  and  lovely  e'en  in  death 't  is  seen, 

Will  fix  the  mourner's  eye,  though  trembling  fears 

Fill  all  his  soul,  and  frequent  fall  his  tears. 
0,  I  could  watch  till  morn  should  change  the  sight, 
This  cold,  and  fair,  and  mournful  Winter  Night. 


SONNET, 

TO   A   VIOLET   FOUND   IN  DECEMBER. 

Ill-fated  Violet !  opening  thy  blue  eye 

In  Winter's  face,  who  treacherous  smiles,  to  see 
So  fair  a  child,  of  parent  such  as  He  ! 

And  didst  thou  think  in  his  chill  lap  to  lie — 
Wrapt  in  the  fallen  mantle  of  the  tree  — 
Secure  as  if  Spring's  bosom  cherished  thee  ? 

Ah,  little  flower !  thy  doom  must  be  to  die 

By  thine  own  sire,  like  Saturn's  progeny. 
In  vain  do  human  gentleness  and  love, 

And  breathing  beauty  hope  to  melt  the  soul 

Through  which  a  holy  influence  never  stole ; 

Though  softening  love  the  lion's  heart  may  move. 

It  cannot  make  cold  self  itself  forget ; 

Nor  canst  thou  Winter  change,  sweet  Violet. 


ALICE  CAREY. 


Misses  Alice  and  Ph(Ebe  Cakey  are  sisters,  and  were  born  in  the 
vicinity  of  Cincinnati,  where  they  still  reside.  Few  persons  have  written 
under  circumstances  which  at  first  sight  appear  so  disadvantageous,  having 
(as  they  inform  us)  "  neither  education  nor  literary  friends."  But  surely 
in  the  wild  hills  and  vales  of  their  native  West  they  have  found 

"  Tongues  in  trees,  books  in  the  running  brooks, 
Sermons  in  stones,  and  good  in  everything." 

HARVEST  TIME. 

God's  blessing  on  the  reapers  !  all  day  long 
A  quiet  sense  of  peace  my  spirit  fills, 

As  whistled  fragments  of  untutored  song 
Blend  with  the  rush  of  sickles  on  the  hills : 

And  the  blue  wild-flowers  and  green  briar-leaves 

Are  brightly  tangled  with  the  yellow  sheaves. 

Where  straight  and  even  the  new  furrows  lie, 
The  cornstalks  in  their  rising  beauty  stand ; 

Heaven's  loving  smile  upon  man's  industry 
Makes  beautiful  with  plenty  the  wide  land. 

The  barns,  pressed  out  with  the  sweet  hay,  I  see, 

And  feel  how  more  than  good  God  is  to  me ! 


311 


ALICE  CAREY. 


In  the  cool  thicket  the  red-robin  sings, 
And  merrily  before  the  mower's  scythe 

Chirps  the  green  grasshopper,  while  slowly  swings, 
In  the  scarce  swaying  air,  the  willow  lithe ; 

And  clouds  sail  softly  through  the  upper  calms. 

White  as  the  fleeces  of  the  unshorn  lambs. 

Outstretched  beneath  the  venerable  trees. 

Conning  his  long  hard  task,  the  schoolboy  lies. 

And,  like  a  fickle  wooer,  the  light  breeze 

Kisses  his  brow ;  then,  scarcely  sighing,  flies  ; 

And  all  about  him  pinks  and  lilies  stand. 

Painting  with  beauty  the  wide  pasture-land. 

0,  there  are  moments  when  we  half  forget 
The  rough,  harsh  grating  of  the  file  of  Time  ; 

And  I  believe  that  angels  come  down  yet 
And  walk  with  us,  as  in  the  Eden  clime ; 

Binding  the  heart,  away  from  woe  and  strife, 

With  leaves  of  healing  from  the  Tree  of  Life. 

And  they  are  most  unworthy,  who  behold 
The  bountiful  provisions  of  God's  care. 

When  reapers  sing  among  the  harvest  gold. 
And  the  mown  meadow  scents  the  quiet  air  ; 

And  yet,  who  never  say,  with  all  the  heart. 

How  good,  my  Father,  0  how  good  thou  art ! 


ALICE  CAREY. 


315 


PALESTINE. 

Bright  inspiration  :  shadowing  my  heart, 

Like  a  sweet  dream  of  beauty — could  I  see 
Tabor  and  Carmel  ere  I  hence  depart, 
And  tread  the  quiet  vales  of  Galilee, 
And  look  from  Hermon,  with  its  dew  and  flowers, 
Upon  the  broken  walls  and  mossy  towers, 
O'er  which  the  Son  of  Man  in  sadness  wept, 
The  loveliest  promise  of  my  life  were  kept. 

Alas,  the  beautiful  cities,  crowned  with  flowers, 

And  robed  with  royalty !  no  more  in  thee. 
Fretted  with  golden  pinnacles  and  towers, 

They  sit  in  haughty  beauty  by  the  sea ! 
Shadows  of  rocks,  precipitate  and  dark, 

Rest  still  and  heavy  where  they  found  a  grave ; 
There  glides  no  more  the  humble  fisher's  bark. 

And  the  wild  heron  drinks  not  of  the  wave. 

But  still  the  silvery  willows  fringe  the  rills, 

Judea's  shepherd  watches  still  his  fold. 
And  round  about  Jerusalem,  the  hills 

Stand  in  their  solemn  grandeur  as  of  old. 
And  Sharon's  roses  still  as  sweetly  bloom. 

As  when  the  Apostles,  in  the  days  gone  by. 
Rolled  back  the  shadows  from  the  dreary  tomb, 

And  brought  to  light,  life's  immortality. 


ALICE  CAREY. 


The  East  has  lain  down  many  a  beauteous  bride, 

In  the  dim  silence  of  the  sepulchre, 
Where  names  are  shrined  in  story,  but  beside 

There  lives  no  sign  to  tell  they  ever  w^ere ; 
The  imperial  fortresses  of  old  renown — 

Rome,  Carthage,  Thebes — alas,  where  are  they  now 
In  the  dim  distance  lost  and  crumbled  down, 

The  glory  that  was  of  them,  from  her  brow, 
Took  of  the  wreath  in  centuries  gone  by, 

And  walked  the  path  of  shadows  silently. 

But,  Palestine,  what  hopes  are  born  of  thee ! 

I  cannot  paint  their  beauty,  hopes  that  rise, 
Linking  this  perishing  mortality 

To  the  bright,  deathless  glories  of  the  skies ! 
There  the  sweet  Babe  of  Bethlehem  was  born. 

Love's  mission  finished  there  in  Calvary's  gloom ; 
There  blazed  the  glories  of  the  rising  morn. 

And  Death  lay  gasping  there  at  Jesus'  tomb ! 


PHCEBE  CAREY. 


THE  FOLLOWERS  OF  CHRIST. 

What  were  Thy  teachings  ?  thou  who  hadst  not  where 

In  all  this  weary  earth  to  lay  thy  head ; 
Thou  who  wert  made  the  sins  of  men  to  bear, 

And  break  with  publicans  thy  daily  bread ! 
Turning  from  Nazareth,  the  despised,  aside, 

And  dwelling  in  the  cities  by  the  sea. 
What  were  thy  words,  to  those  who  sat  and  dried 

Their  nets  upon  the  rocks  of  Galilee  ? 

Didst  thou  not  teach  thy  followers  here  below. 

Patience,  long-suffering,  charity,  and  love ; 
To  be  forgiving,  and  to  anger  slow. 

And  perfect,  like  our  blessed  God  above  ? 
And  who  were  they,  the  called  and  chosen  then, 

Through  all  the  world,  teaching  thy  truth,  to  go  ? 
Were  they  the  Rulers,  and  the  chiefest  men. 

The  teachers  in  the  synagogue  ?    Not  so ! 
Makers  of  tents,  and  fishers  by  the  sea, 
These  only  left  their  all  to  follow  Thee. 

And  even  of  the  twelve  whom  thou  didst  name 
Apostles  of  thy  holy  word  to  be, 


PHCEBE  CAREY. 


One  was  a  Devil ;  and  the  one  who  came 
With  loudest  boasts  of  faith  and  constancy, 

He  was  the  first  thy  warning  who  forgot, 

And  said,  with  curses,  that  he  knew  Thee  not 

Yet  were  there  some  who  in  thy  sorrows  were 
To  thee  even  as  a  brother  and  a  friend. 

And  women,  seeking  out  the  sepulchre. 
Were  true  and  faithful  even  to  the  end  • 

And  some  there  were  who  kept  the  living  faith 

Through  persecution  even  unto  death. 

But,  Saviour,  since  that  dark  and  awful  day 

When  the  dread  Temple's  vail  was  rent  in  twain, 
And  while  the  noontide  brightness  fled  away. 

The  gaping  earth  gave  up  her  dead  again ; 
Tracing  the  many  generations  down, 

Who  have  professed  to  love  thy  holy  ways. 
Through  the  long  centuries  of  the  world's  renovv  i, 

And  through  the  terrors  of  her  darker  days ; 
Where  are  thy  followers,  and  what  deeds  of  love 
Their  deep  devotion  to  thy  precepts  prove  ? 

Turn  to  the  time  when  o'er  the  green  hills  came 

Peter,  the  hermit,  from  the  cloister's  gloom. 
Telling  his  followers  in  the  Saviour's  name 

To  arm  and  battle  for  the  sacred  tomb ; 
Not  with  the  Christian  armour,  perfect  faith, 

And  love  which  purifies  the  soul  from  dross, 
But  holding  in  one  hand  the  sword  of  death, 

And  in  the  other  lifting  up  the  cross. 


PHCEBE  CAREY. 


319 


He  roused  the  sleeping  nations  up  to  feel 
All  the  blind  ardour  of  unholy  zeal ! 

With  the  bright  banner  of  the  cross  unfurled, 

And  chanting  sacred  hymns,  they  marched,  and  yet 
They  made  a  Pandemonium  of  the  world, 

More  dark  than  that  where  fallen  angels  met : 
The  singing  of  their  bugles  could  not  drown 
The  bitter  curses  of  the  hunted  down ! 
Richard,  the  lion-hearted,  brave  in  war, 

Tancred,  and  Godfrey,  of  the  fearless  band. 
Though  earthly  fame  had  spread  their  names  afar, 

What  were  they  but  the  scourges  of  the  land  ? 
And  worse  than  these,  were  men  whose  touch  would  be 
Pollution,  vowed  to  lives  of  sanctity ! 

And  in  thy  name  did  men  in  other  days 

Construct  the  Inquisition's  gloomy  cell. 
And  kindle  persecution  to  a  blaze, 

Likest  of  all  things  to  the  fires  of  hell ! 
Ridley  and  Latimer,  I  hear  their  song 

In  calling  up  each  martyr's  glorious  name. 
And  Cranmer,  with  the  praises  on  his  tongue 

When  his  red  hand  dropped  down  amid  the  flame ! 
Merciful  God  !  and  have  these  things  been  done, 
And  in  the  name  of  thy  most  holy  Son  ? 

Turning  from  other  lands  grown  old  in  crime, 
To  this,  where  freedom's  root  is  deeply  set, 

41 


320 


PH(EBE  CAREY. 


Surely  no  stain  upon  its  folds  sublime 
Dims  the  escutcheon  of  our  glory  yet ! 

Hush !  came  there  not  a  sound  upon  the  air 

Like  captives  moaning  from  their  native  shore — 
Woman's  deep  wail  of  passionate  despair 

For  home  and  kindred  seen  on  earth  no  more ! 
Yes,  standing  in  the  market-place  I  see 

Our  weaker  brethren  coldly  bought  and  sold, 
To  be  in  hopeless,  dull  captivity, 

Driven  forth  to  toil  like  cattle  from  the  fold : 
And  hark !  the  lash,  and  the  despairing  cry 

Of  the  strong  man  in  perilous  agony ! 

And  near  me  I  can  hear  the  heavy  sound 

Of  the  dull  hammer  borne  upon  the  air  : 
Is  a  new  city  rising  from  the  ground  ? 

What  hath  the  artisan  constructed  there  ? 
'T  is  not  a  palace,  nor  an  humble  shed ; 

'Tis  not  a  holy  temple  reared  by  hands — 
No  ! — lifting  up  its  dark  and  bloody  head 

Right  in  the  face  of  Heaven,  the  scatfold  stands  ! 
And  men,  regardless  of  "  Thou  shalt  not  kill,"" 

That  plainest  lesson  in  the  Book  of  Light, 
Even  from  the  very  altars  tell  us  still. 

That,  evil  sanctioned  by  the  law  is  right ! 
And  preach,  in  tones  of  eloquence  sublime, 
To  teach  mankind  that  murder  is  not  crime ! 


PH(EBE  CAREY. 


And  is  there  nothing  to  redeem  mankind?  — 
No  heart  that  keeps  the  love  of  God  within  ? 

Is  the  whole  world  degraded,  weak,  and  blind, 
And  darkened  by  the  leprous  scales  of  sin  ? 

No,  we  will  hope  that  some,  in  meekness  sweet, 

Still  sit,  with  trusting  Mary,  at  thy  feet. 

For  there  are  men  of  God,  who  faithful  stand 

On  the  far  ramparts  of  our  Zion's  wall. 
Planting  the  cross  of  Jesus  in  some  land 

That  never  listened  to  salvation's  call. 
And  there  are  some,  led  by  philanthropy, 

Men  of  the  feeling  heart  and  daring  mind. 
Who  fain  would  set  the  hopeless  free. 

And  raise  the  weak  and  fallen  of  mankind. 
And  there  are  many  in  life's  humblest  way, 

Who  tread  like  angels  on  a  path  of  light. 
Who  warn  the  sinful  when  they  go  astray, 

And  point  the  erring  to  the  way  of  right ; 
And  the  meek  beauty  of  such  lives  will  teach 
More  than  the  eloquence  of  man  can  preach. 

And,  blessed  Saviour !  by  thy  life  of  trial. 
And  by  thy  death,  to  free  the  world  from  sin, 

And  by  the  hope,  that  man,  though  weak  and  vile. 
Hath  something  of  divinity  within ; 

Still  will  we  trust,  though  sin  and  crime  be  met, 

To  see  thy  holy  precepts  triumph  yet ! 


SARAH  L.  P.  SMITH. 


Mes.  1.3mitHj  whose  maiden  name  was  Hickman,  was  a  native  of  De- 
troit. She  was  the  wife  of  the  late  Mr.  Samuel  Jenks  Smith,  of  Providence. 
Her  poems  were  published  in  a  volume,  in  1830.    She  died  in  1832. 


WHITE  ROSES. 

They  were  gathered  for  a  bridal! 

I  knew  it  by  their  hue; 
Fair  as  the  summer  moonlight 

Upon  the  sleeping  dew. 
From  their  fair  and  fairy  sisters 

They  were  borne  without  a  sigh, 
For  one  remembered  evening 

To  blossom  and  to  die. 


They  were  gathered  for  a  bridal ! 

And  fastened  in  a  wreath; 
But  purer  were  the  roses 

Than  the  heart  that  lay  beneath; 
Yet  the  beaming  eye  was  lovely, 

And  the  coral  lip  was  fair, 
And  the  gazer  looked  and  asked  not 

For  the  secret  hidden  there. 


SARAH  L.  P.  SMITH. 


They  were  gathered  for  a  bridal ! 

Where  a  thousand  torches  glistened, 
When  the  holy  words  were  spoken, 

And  the  false  and  faithless  listened 
And  answered  to  the  vow 

Which  another  heart  had  taken; 
Yet  he  was  present  then — 

The  once  loved,  the  forsaken. 

They  were  gathered  for  a  bridal ! 

And  now,  now  they  are  dying, 
And  young  Love  at  the  altar 

Of  broken  faith  is  sighing. 
Their  summer  life  was  stainless, 

And  not  like  hers  who  wore  them; 
They  are  faded,  and  the  farewell 

Of  beauty  lingers  o'er  them ! 


THE  FALL  OF  WARSAW. 

Through  Warsaw  there  is  weeping, 

And  a  voice  of  sorrow  now, 
For  the  hero  who  is  sleeping, 

With  death  upon  his  brow ; 
.  The  trumpet-tone  will  waken 

No  more  his  martial  tread, 
Nor  the  battle-ground  be  shaken 

When  his  banner  is  outspread ! 


324 


SARAH  L.  P.  SMITH. 


Now  let  our  hymn 

Float  through  the  aisle, 
Faintly  and  dim, 

Where  moonbeams  smile; 
Sisters,  let  our  solemn  strain 
Breathe  a  blessing  o'er  the  slain ! 

There 's  a  voice  of  grief  in  Warsaw, 

The  mourning  of  the  brave 
O'er  the  chieftain  who  is  gathered 

Unto  his  honoured  grave ; 
Who  now  will  face  the  foeman? 

Who  break  the  tyrant's  chain  ? 
Their  bravest  one  lies  fallen, 
And  sleeping  with  the  slain. 
Now  let  our  hymn 

Float  through  the  aisle, 
Faintly  and  dim. 

Where  moonbeams  smile; 
Sisters,  let  our  dirge  be  said 
Slowly  o'er  the  sainted  dead! 

There's  a  voice  of  woman  weeping, 

In  Warsaw  heard  to-night. 
And  eyes  close  not  in  sleeping, 

That  late  with  joy  were  bright ; 
No  festal  torch  is  lighted, 

No  notes  of  music  swell; 
Their  country's  hope  was  blighted 

When  that  son  of  freedom  fell! 


SARAH  L.  P.  SMITH. 


Now  let  our  hymn 

Float  through  the  aisle, 
Faintly  and  dim, 

Where  moonbeams  smile; 
Sisters,  let  our  hymn  arise 
Sadly  to  the  midnight  skies ! 

And  a  voice  of  love  undying, 

From  the  tomb  of  other  years, 
Like  the  west  wind's  summer  sighing, 

It  blends  with  manhood's  tears; 
It  whispers  not  of  glory. 

Nor  fame's  unfading  youth, 
But  lingers  o'er  a  story 
Of  young  affection's  truth. 
Now  let  our  hymn 

Float  through  the  aisle. 
Faintly  and  dim. 

Where  moonbeams  smile ; 
Sisters,  let  our  solemn  strain 
Breathe  a  blessing  o'er  the  slain! 


MARY  E.  BROOKS. 


The  family  name  of  this  lady  was  Aikin.  In  1828  she  was  married  to 
Mr.  James  G.  Brooks,  a  gentleman  of  fine  literary  acquirements.  Under 
the  signature  of  "  Norna,"  she  first  contributed  to  the  New  York  periodi- 
cals, and  in  1829  appeared  her  largest  work,  entitled  "The  Rivals  of 
Este."    She  was  left  a  widow  in  1841,  and,  resides  in  New  York. 

"WEEP  NOT  FOR  THE  DEAD." 

Oh,  weep  not  for  the  dead ! 
Rather,  oh  rather  give  the  tear 
To  those  who  darkly  linger  here, 

When  all  besides  are  fled; 
Weep  for  the  spirit  withering. 
In  its  cold,  cheerless  sorrowing, 
Weep  for  the  young  and  lovely  one 
That  ruin  darkly  revels  on, 
But  never  be  a  tear-drop  shed 
For  them,  the  pure  enfranchised  dead. 

Oh,  weep  not  for  the  dead ! 
No  more  for  them  the  blighting  chill, 
The  thousand  shades  of  earthly  ill. 

The  thousand  thorns  we  tread; 
Weep  for  the  life-charm  early  flown. 
The  spirit  broken,  bleeding,  lone ; 


MARY  E.  BROOKS. 


327 


Weep  for  the  death-pangs  of  the  heart 
Ere  being  from  the  bosom  part; 
But  never  be  a  tear-drop  given 
To  those  that  rest  in  yon  blue  heaven. 


42 


MARGARET  JUNKIN. 


The  subject  of  this  notice  is  the  daughter  of  the  Rev.  Dr.  George  Jun- 
dn,  President  of  Washington  College,  Lexington,  Virginia.  She  resides  with 
her  parents. 


SHADE  AND  SUNSHINE. 

Earth  is  the  home  of  sorrow !  life, 

Though  joyful  it  appears, 
Is  given,  continued,  and  sustained, 

And  borne  away  in  tears.. 
The  sentient  throngs  of  earth  and  air 

Join  Nature's  voice  to  keep 
Existence  festive, — man  alone 

Is  privileged  to  weep. 


Sweet  as  the  "  music  of  the  spheres" 

Creation's  hymn  should  be, 
Yet  evermore  the  human  voice 

Is  wailing  mournfully ; 
And  'mid  the  still  majestic  strain 

Of  praise  and  paean  high, 
Are  mingled  death's  despairing  shriek, 

And  hopeless  misery's  cry. 


MARGARET  JUNKIN. 


329 


The  earliest  beams  of  every  morn 

Fall  on  some  mourner's  head, 
And  flit  in  mockery  across 

The  dying  and  the  dead; 
The  light  of  every  parting  sun 

Finds  sorrowful  repose 
On  new-made  graves,  whose  turf  was  still 

Unbroken  when  he  rose. 

The  trembling  stars  look  nightly  down 

On  brows  that,  'mid  the  glare 
Of  day,  when  all  were  smiling  round, 

Seemed  glad  as  any  there : 
But  in  the  darkened  solitude 

The  mask  aside  is  thrown, 
And  the  crushed  spirit  spreads  its  woe 

Before  its  God  alone. 

And  yet  it  is  not  ceaseless  wail 

That  earthly  voices  raise; 
For  some  have  learned  the  symphony, 

And  joined  the  song  of  praise. 
Ah,  tear-dimmed  eyes  must  long  have  closed, 

Had  not  a  hand  of  love 
Upheld  the  faltering  step,  and  turned 

The  wandering  gaze  above ! 

Then  with  divinely  lighted  eye, 
They  read  their  sufferings  o'er, 


MARGARET  JUNKIN. 


And  find  a  meaning  in  their  grief 

They  failed  to  find  before : 
A  beauty  touches  all  the  past. 

And  from  the  future  fled 
Is  every  fear, — and  stars  of  hope 

Are  shining  overhead. 

Who  then  can  call  this  glorious  world. 

With  such  a  radiance,  dim 
And  desolate,  since  on  its  sky 

Is  stamped  the  seal  of  Him, 
Who,  in  His  rich  magnificence. 

Has  lavished  all  abroad 
A  splendour  that  could  only  spring 

Beneath  the  hand  of  God ! 

No,  Earth  has  something  more  than  gloom, 

And  pain,  and  sickening  fear. 
For  holy  Peace  has  often  come, 

And  made  its  dwelling  here ; 
Nor  ever  will  it  quite  depart, 

Until  our  closing  eyes 
Are  turned  from  Earth,  to  find  in  Heaven 

A  fadeless  Paradise ! 


MARGARET  JUNKIN. 


331 


THE  BIRTH  OF  THE  FLOWERS. 

"The  melancholy  days  are  come,  the  saddest  of  the  year." 

Bryant's  Death  of  the  Flowers. 

The  loveliest,  brightest  days  are  come,  the  gayest  of  the 
year. 

The  blue-bird  heralds  their  approach  with  music  soft  and 
clear ; 

The  South  wind  kisses  the  fair  cheek  of  the  young  blushing 
Spring, 

And  in  her  ear  his  welcome  kind  he  now  is  whispering. 

Sweet  Spring !  with  eager  joyfulness  I  hail  thee  once  again, 
And  bid  adieu  with  lightened  heart,  to  Winter's  sombre 
reign ; 

I  gladly  catch  his  parting  breath,  and  mark  his  closing  eye, — 
Impatient  for  a  gentler  air,  and  for  a  softer  sky. 

Thou  comest  with  thy  gifts  to  deck  this  Eden-home  of  ours, 
The  streams  leap  free  at  thy  approach,  the  earth  grows  bright 
with  flowers; 

They  creep  along  the  water's  side,  and  make  their  toilette 
there. 

And  don  the  green  robes  gracefully  which  Nature  gives  to 
wear. 

The  columbine  is  swinging  its  little  crimson  bell. 

And  moss-cups  meet  for  fairy's  lip,  are  springing  in  the  dell 


332 


MARGARET  JUNKIN. 


'Mid  lilies  delicately  white,  and  there  are  sunny  spots 
Along  the  river  bank,  all  bright  with  wild  forget-me-nots. 

The  sweet-voiced  rivulets,  the  birds,  the  many-fingered 
breeze. 

Harping  upon  a  thousand  strings  among  the  leafy  trees. 
Wake  such  heart-thrilling  music  in  Nature's  glorious  fane, 
As  never  yet  from  fretted  roof  was  echoed  back  again. 

How  beautiful  a  home — how  fair  a  dwelling-place  is  earth, 
When  Spring  puts  on  her  garniture,  and  gives  her  blossoms 
birth ; 

Even  when  she  weeps,  as  oft  she  will,  though  surely  not  for 
grief, 

Her  tears  are  turned  to  diamond  drops,  on  every  shining 
leaf! 

Who  could  be  sad  when  ever  on,  is  ringing  in  his  ear 
The  laugh  of  merry-hearted  Spring,  the  favourite  of  the 
Year? 

When  she  will  lead  him  gently  forth,  even  in  his  heaviest 
hours. 

And  sweetly  teach  him  happiness,  from  her  bright  books, 
the  Flowers! 


ANNA  PEYRE  DINNIES. 


Mrs.  Dinnies  is  a  native  of  Georgetown,  South  Carolina,  but  when  very 
young  removed  with  her  parents  to  Charleston.  She  resided  for  a  number 
of  years  afterwards  at  St.  Louis,  but  is  now  a  resident  of  New  Orleans. 
Her  father.  Judge  Shackleford,  early  fostered  a  taste  for  pure  and  classical 
literature  in  the  mind  of  his  daughter,  who  in  girlhood  evinced  uncommon 
poetic  talent.  After  a  somewhat  romantic,  but  most  happy  marriage,  she 
first  gave  her  poems  to  the  public  under  the  signature  of  "  Moina,"  all 
breathing  a  true  womanly  domestic  spirit.  In  1846  she  published  a  volume 
of  poems,  under  the  title  of  the  "  The  Floral  Year." 

COME,  ROUSE  THEE,  DEAREST. 

Come,  rouse  thee,  dearest!  'tis  not  well 

To  let  the  spirit  brood 
Thus  darkly  o'er  the  cares  that  swell 

Life's  current  to  a  flood ! 
As  brooks,  and  torrents,  rivers,  all 
Increase  the  gulf  in  which  they  fall. 
Such  thoughts,  by  gathering  up  the  rills 
Of  lesser  grief,  spread  real  ills; 
And  with  their  gloomy  shades  conceal 
The  landmarks  Hope  would  else  reveal ! 

Come,  rouse  thee  now !  I  know  thy  mind, 
And  would  its  strength  awaken ; 

Proud,  gifted,  noble,  ardent,  kind, — 
Strange,  thou  should'st  be  thus  shaken ! 


ANNA  PEYRE  DINNIES. 


But  rouse  afresh  each  energy, 

And  be  what  Heaven  intended  thee ; 

Shake  from  thy  soul  this  wearying  weight, 

And  prove  thy  spirit  firmly  great; 

I  would  not  see  thee  bend  below 

The  angry  storms  of  earthly  woe ! 

Full  well  I  know  the  generous  soul 

Which  warms  thee  into  life, 
Each  spring  which  can  its  powers  control 

Familiar  to  thy  wife  — 
For  deem'st  thou  she  had  stooped  to  bind 
Her  fate  unto  a  common  mind  ? 
The  eagle-like  ambition,  nursed 
From  childhood  in  her  heart,  had  first 
Consumed  with  its  Promethean  flame 
Its  shrine — than  sunk  her  so  to  shame. 

Then,  rouse  thee,  dearest,  from  the  dream 

That  fetters  now  thy  powers ; 
Shake  off  this  gloom !  Hope  sheds  a  beam 

To  gild  each  cloud  that  lowers — 
And  though,  at  present,  seems  so  far 
The  wished-for  goal — a  guiding  star. 
With  steady  ray  would  light  thee  on 
Until  its  utmost  bound  be  won, — 
That  quenchless  ray  thou 'It  ever  prove. 
In  fond,  undying,  wedded  love ! 


\ 


ANNA  PEYRE  DINNIES. 


335 


THE  GIFTED  GIRL  * 

They  say  I  am  a  gifted  creature — Fame 
High  in  her  temple  hath  enrolled  my  name, 
And  Beauty  on  my  young,  sad  brow,  hath  set 
Her  rainbow-tinctured,  radiant  coronet ! 

And  these  have  won  for  me — I  know  it  well — 
Envy  and  burning  hatred  often — where 

I  never  injured ;  and  my  soul's  proud  spell 
Of  Genius — reaps,  alas!  too  oft  but  care. 
And  yet,  sweet,  gentle  one !    Thou  modest  Girl, 
Who  kindly  gazest  on  each  waving  curl 
Of  floating  jet,  that  circles  round  me — why 
To  view  my  high-wrought  beauty  dost  thou  sigh  ? 

True,  I  have  nobler  gifts.    The  lofty  spirit 
Of  a  long  line  of  high  ones,  I  inherit ; 
And  from  the  depths  of  feeling,  and  of  thought, 
Bright,  bright  creations  has  my  fancy  caught, 
And  imaged  forth  in  all  the  wild,  rich  glow 

Which  painting  breathes  upon  the  spirit's  dream. 
While  music  wakes  her  soothing  soft  and  low 
At  my  light  bidding — like  a  'whelming  stream 

*  "I  remember,  while  at  Florence,  to  have  witnessed  the  funeral  obse- 
quies of  a  young  girl  of  noble  descent,  long  considered  the  most  beautiful 
and  accomplished  female  in  the  kingdom.  The  deep  melancholy  into  which 
she  fell,  united  to  other  circumstances,  originated  a  report  of  her  death 
Deing  caused  by  the  '  maladie  du  cceur,^  " — Recollections  of  Italy. 
43 


.336 


ANNA  PEYRE  DINNIES. 


Rushing  to  meet  my  fingers'  ardent  touch, 
She  throngs  the  harp-strings  which  I  love  so  much ; 
Yes  !  these  are  mine — high  gifts — Yet,  fair  one,  why 
For  these  should  thy  pure  bosom  breathe  a  sigh  ? 

Are  they  not  all  ?    Ah,  wherefore  ask  the  tale, 
Of  blessings  which  have  made  my  young  cheek  pale  ? 
For  they  have  brought  me  in  their  glittering  train, 
Much  of  deep  pleasure,  but  a  world  of  pain. 

Sweetly  they  soothe  me  in  the  hour  of  grief — 
Yet  'tis  a  selfish  joy  e'en  then,  they  throw 

Over  my  saddened  heart — delusive — brief — 
And  vanishing — like  starlight's  milder  glow, — 
For  in  my  joys  as  in  my  griefs — alone — 
No  bosom  thrills  responsive  to  my  own ! 
Of  all  the  crowds  this  busy  world  contains, 
None  join  my  mirth,  or  suffer  in  my  pains ! 

Ah,  gentle  Girl,  thou  enviest  gifts  like  mine ! 
Think  what  a  dearer,  holier  boon,  is  thine ! 
Thy  dove-like  meekness  tints  affection's  cheek, 
With  purer  language  than  the  lips  may  speak; 

Fame  is  my  proud  inheritance  —  thine  own 

Is  Love — the  noblest  gift  of  bounteous  Heaven. 

O'er  me,  alas !  it  hath  but  vainly  thrown 

The  spells  of  Genius.    Think  not  they  have  given 
To  my  heart  happiness — the  faithless  dower 
Of  Beauty  too,  is  worthless  as  a  flower. 
To  win  attachment  each  bright  spell  I 've  tried. 
Yet  none  have  loved  me  since  my  mother  died ! 


ANNA  PEYRE  DINNIES. 


337 


And  this  it  is  to  be  exalted — high — 
And  wake  in  thoughtless  breasts  the  envious  sigh ! 
I  am  '  a  thing  enskied,'  and  it  might  seem, 
Men  view  me  as  the  phantom  of  a  dream, 
Or  picture,  such  as  my  own  pencil  wrought 

In  other  days — They  gaze — and  gaze — admiring 
My  beauty — even  while  my  name  hath  caught 

The  ear  of  many,  for  a  time  inspiring 
Astonishment — that  one  so  fair,  so  bright, 
Should  stand  thus  lonely  in  her  spirit's  might — 
And — coldly  then  they've  turned  away  —  nor  deemed 
I  was  not  all  the  statue  that  I  seemed ! 

Alas !  few  know  the  wretchedness  which  clings 
Around  a  heart  in  which  affection's  springs 
Are  flowing  deep,  unanswered,  all  unsought, 
And  bearing  back  the  treasures  they  have  brought 

From  hidden  sources — holy,  high,  unseen, 

Unthought  of,  by  the  common  throng — who  gaze 

Upon  the  lone  one's  lofty  brow  serene, 

O'er  which  no  love-requited  flush  e'er  plays. 
Oh,  gentle  Girl !  Dost  envy  still  these  gifts  ? 
Its  pitying  gaze  to  mine  thy  mild  eye  lifts ; 
What  says  the  spirit  in  my  look  that  lies  ? 
Beloved  of  Earth  and  Heaven!  be  satisfied- — be  wise. 


338 


ANNA  PEYRE  DINNIES. 


THE  WIFE. 

"  She  flung  her  white  arms  round  him — Thou  art  all  that  this  poor  heart  can 
cling  to." 

I  COULD  have  stemmed  misfortune's  tide, 

And  borne  the  rich  one's  sneer, 
Have  braved  the  haughty  glance  of  pride, 

Nor  shed  a  single  tear; 
I  could  have  smiled  on  every  blow 

From  Life's  full  quiver  thrown, 
While  I  might  gaze  on  thee,  and  know 

I  should  not  be  alone! 

I  could,  /  think,  I  could  have  brooked. 

E'en  for  a  time,  that  thou 
Upon  my  fading  face  hadst  looked 

With  less  of  love  than  now ; 
For  then  I  should  at  least  have  felt 

The  sweet  hope  stiJl  my  own, 
To  win  thee  back,  and  whilst  thou  dwelt 

On  earth,  not  been  alone ! 

But  thus,  to  see  from  day  to  day 

Thy  brightening  eye  and  cheek. 
And  watch  thy  life-sands  waste  away. 

Unnumbered,  slowly,  meek; 
To  meet  thy  look  of  tenderness. 

And  catch  the  feeble  tone 
Of  kindness,  ever  breathed  to  bless. 

And  feel,  I'll  be  alone! 


ANNA  PEYRE  DINNIES. 

To  mark  thy  strength  each  hour  decay, 

And  yet  thy  hopes  grow  stronger, 
As  filled  with  heavenward  trust,  they  say, 

"Earth  may  not  claim  thee  longer;" 
Nay,  dearest !  'tis  too  much, — this  heart 

Must  break,  when  thou  art  gone ; 
It  must  not  be — we  may  not  part — 

I  could  not  live  alone! 


FRIENDSHIP, 

There  are  a  thousand  nameless  ties, 

Which  only  such  as  feel  them  know ; 
Of  kindred  thoughts,  deep  sympathies, 

And  untold  fancy  spells,  which  throw 
O'er  ardent  minds  and  faithful  hearts 

A  chain,  whose  charmed  links  so  blend. 
That  the  light  circlet  but  imparts 

Its  force,  in  these  fond  words, — my  friend 

It  is  a  mystic  wreath,  which  twines 

Around  two  souls  its  tendrils  bright. 
Whose  sacred,  softest  touch  refines 

And  purifies ;  it  is  a  light. 
Which  brightest  shines  on  Life's  dull  stream. 

And  cheers  our  roughest  voyage  here, 
Adds  lustre  to  Hope's  gilded  dream, 

And  yields  a  solace  to  Despair. 


340 


ANNA  PEYRE  DINNIES. 


It  is  a  compact,  pure,  high,  holy, 

Felt,  not  expressed,  yet  deeply  binding ; 
It  charms  the  great,  consoles  the  lowly, 

And  'midst  our  saddest  thoughts  oft  winding, 
Its  gentle  influences  will  dispel. 

Dark  shadows  from  the  brow  of  Care, 
And  conjure  up  from  Memory's  cell 

Fair  images  which  linger  there. 

It  is  the  covenant  of  souls, — 

A  heaven-inspired  bond  of  feeling, 
Which  neither  time  nor  place  controls. 

While  even  absence,  all  else  stealing. 
Leaves  within  minds  of  loftier  mould 

That  radiant  flame,  enduring  ever ; 
Passion  and  Fancy,  Hope  grow  cold. 

But  heaven-born  Friendship — never  !  never  ! 


ELIZABETH  J.  EAMES. 


Mrs.  Elizabeth  J.  Eames,  formerly  Miss  Jessup,  is  a  native  of  Scho- 
dack,  a  small  village  on  the  banks  of  the  Hudson.  Since  her  marriage, 
she  has  resided  near  Utica,  New  York.  Her  poems  have  appeared  from 
time  to  time  in  "  Graham's  Magazine,"  "The  New  York  Tribune,"  and 
other  periodicals.    A  collection  of  her  writings  is  about  to  be  published. 

"THERE  SHALL  BE  LIGHT." 

Onward  and  upward,  0  my  soul ! 

Let  thy  endeavour  be  — 
Though  dark  the  cloud-mist  'bove  thee  roll, 

Light  shall  be  given  to  thee; 
Though  stormiest  waves  and  billows  rock 

Thy  human  bark  at  will, 
Thou  shalt  have  strength  to  bear  the  shock — 

Be  Hope  thy  anchor  still. 

Alas!  thou  shrink'st  with  lonely  fear, 

Thou  tremblest  with  the  cold. 
Thy  inner  life  shows  pale  and  drear. 

And  languidly  unfold 
The  feeble  wings  that  fain  would  find 

The  source  of  mental  day ; 
Still  unrevealed  the  path  —  and  blind 

Doth  the  immortal  stray ! 


ELIZABETH  J.  EAMES. 

Oh,  pining  soul!  my  heart  is  faint  — 

My  hand  grows  timorous,  weak ; 
Why,  why  that  half-reproachful  plaint? 

And  wherefore  dost  thou  speak 
So  mournful  and  despondingly, 

Imploring  my  poor  aid  ? 
What  can  I  do,  dear  soul,  for  thee, 

Ere  I  am  lowlier  laid  1 

Seest  thou  my  cheek  is  thin  and  pale. 

Mine  eyes  with  vigils  dim  ? 
Daily  my  strength  and  courage  fail, 

And  through  each  faltering  limb 
Quivers  the  arrow  of  disease ; 

Still,  for  the  wasting  clay, 
Cometh  no  hours  of  calm  and  ease 

To  soften  its  decay ! 

Oh!  not  in  such  imperfect  state 

Can  thy  full  wakening  be;  1 
Yet,  yet,  my  soul,  in  patience  wait — 

The  morn  must  break  for  thee. 
Not  vainly  dost  thou  thirst  for  more 

Than  this  poor  world  can  give  — 
Where  gleam  the  waves  of  yon  bright  shore. 

There  shalt  thou  drink  and  live. 

Freed  from  those  bonds  of  mortal  flesh, 
Thou  shalt  go  forth,  rhy  soul, 


ELIZABETH  J.  EAMES. 


343 


Rejoicing  in  a  nobler  birth, 
With  powers  beyond  control. 

Then  onward !  't  is  not  always  night, 
Though  clouds  dim  now  thy  way : 

Oh !  soul  of  mine !  there  will  be  light 
To  show  the  perfect  day ! 


DIEM  PERDIDI. 

"  When  the  Emperor  Titus  remembered  at  night  that  he  had  done  nothing 
beneficial  during  the  day,  he  used  to  exclaim — '  I  have  lost  a  day.'  " 

0  GREATLY  wise  !  thou  of  the  crown  and  rod. 

Robed  in  the  purple  majesty  of  kings  — 
Power  was  thine  own,  where'er  thy  footsteps  trod, 

Yet  didst  thou  mourn  if  Time  on  idle  wings 
Went  by  for  thee !    Deep  sunk  in  thought  wert  thou — 

And  sadness  rested  on  thy  noble  brow. 
If,  when  the  dying  day  closed  o'er  thy  head, 

Thou  hadst  no  knowledge  gained — no  good  conferred: 

"  Diem  perdidi !"  was  the  thought  that  stirred 
Thy  conscious  soul,  when  night  her  curtain  spread. 

Oh  Emperor,  greatly  wise  !  could  we  so  deal 
With  misspent  hours,  and  win  thy  faith  sublime. 

We  should  not  be  ('mid  the  soul's  mute  appeal) 
Such  triflers  with  the  solemn  trust  of  Time ! 

44 


344 


ELIZABETH  J.  EAMES. 


LOVE'S  LAST  WORK. 

"Mightier  thou  art,  and  ever  wert, 
0,  Love— than  Death!" 


A  SOFT  Italian  sunset  its  rich  warm  purple  spread — 
Blending  its  royal  rays  with  hues  of  gold  and  ruby  red ; 
A  still  and  shining  lake,  beneath,  mirrored  each  passing  dye, 
Which  in  its  sun-born  glory  lay,  bright  as  the  bending  sky. 

II. 

Serenely  radiant  and  fair,  that  Southern  sunset  played 
Around  a  Cottage  Home,  which  stood  in  a  green,  luxuriant 
glade  — 

Filling  the  glossy  chestnut  stems  with  veins  of  tender  light, 
And  flinging  o'er  the  olive  leaf  a  veil  more  silvery  bright. 

III. 

But  its  parting  glow  fell  loveliest,  where  a  starry  jasmine 
wound, 

With  the  myrtle  and  rose-laurel,  an  open  casement  round ; 
Through  which  the  citron-odours  and  lime-tree's  fragrance 
stole. 

And  a  nightingale  made  music,  to  charm  the  pensive  soul. 


ELIZABETH  J.  EAMES.  345 
IV. 

But  unheeded  fell  the  sunlight  through  the  rich  and  bowery 
gloom; 

Unheeded  strayed  sweet  scents  and  sounds  through  the  dying 

Painter's  room. 
Upon  his  silken  couch  he  lay,  but  his  thoughts  were  all  of 

her 

Who  had  been  the  starlight  of  his  dreams,  his  boyhood's 
worshipper. 


Long  did  his  dark,  adoring  eye,  rest  on  her  lovely  face, 
As  though  to  grave  upon  his  soul  each  fair  and  faultless 
grace. 

He  spoke  at  last, — and  low,  and  deep,  yet  melting  was  the 
tone 

That  thrilled  the  listening  ear  of  her,  who  watched  him  there 
alone. 

"  The  Spirit  of  my  Art— 
The  high — the  beautiful,  the  God-like  spirit — 

Visits  once  more  my  heart, 
Its  last,  last  crown  of  triumph  to  inherit ! 
Come  hither,  love,  this  parting  loork  shall  be 

Worthy  my  skill, — and  thee. 


"And  thou — stand  as  thou  art — 
Just  lay  that  soft  braid  from  thy  snowy  forehead. 
And  I,  ere  I  depart, 


ELIZABETH  J.  EAMES. 

Will  paint  such  loveliness,  as  ne'er  was  borrowed 
From  Raphael's  Mary, — so  divinely  fair. 
Thou  stand'st,  half-drooping  there  ! 

"  Yes !  thou  art  wondrous  fair — 
Not  the  rich,  radiant  beauty,  that  I  found  thee — 

But  a  loveliness  more  rare  — 
Refined  and  chastened,  floateth  soft  around  thee — 
Thy  cheek  is  pale,  and  thy  pure,  pure  brow 

Showeth  the  blue  veins  now  ! 

"  But  how  serenely  bright 
The  dear  work  grows,  beneath  my  quivering  fingers ; 

See  !  I  have  caught  the  light — 
The  spiritual  light,  that  in  thy  blue  eye  lingers — 
And  given,  to  those  curved  lips,  the  tenderness 

Born  of  thy  love's  excess. 

"  But  how  much  dwells  unseen, 
My  blessed,  blessed  one  !  0,  nought  can  ever 

Show  forth  what  thou  hast  been. 
Through  all  the  changes  of  '  Life's  fitful  fever  :' — 
Unto  my  heart,  thy  deep,  devoted  love 

Hath  been  all  gifts  above  ! 

"For  all  thy  gentle  cares — 
Thy  patient  ministry,  through  long  hours  of  sickness 

For  thy  watchings,  and  thy  prayers  — 
Thy  hopeful  spirit,  raised  to  aid  my  weakness  — 
For  thy  youth,  thy  bloom  made  offerings  unto  me — 

For  all,  again  I  bless  thee ! 


ELIZABETH  J.  EAMES. 


"  Now  lay  my  weary  head, — 
For  the  last  time,  upon  thy  faithful  bosom. 

0,  weep  not  thus,  beloved  ! 
Yet,  yet  a  little  while,  my  drooping  blossom, 
And  thou  shalt  fill  that  vacant  place  by  me  — 

Under  yon  spreading  tree  ! 

"  And  let  this  comfort  thee. 
That  our  SouVs  Love  is  not  of  things  that  perish ; 

It  will  immortal  be 
And  holy,  as  the  Faith  our  spirits  cherish. ^ — 
We  shall  '  o'ersweep  the  grave,'  again  to  dwell 

Beside  each  other — love — farewell!" 


FLOWERS  IN  A  SICK  ROOM. 

Ye  are  welcome  to  my  darkened  room, 

0  meek  and  lonely  wildwood  flowers ! 
Ye  are  welcome,  as  light  amid  the  gloom 
That  hangs  upon  my  weary  hours. 
Here,  by  my  lowly  couch  of  languishment  and  sorrow 
Your  station  take,  that  I  may  from  your  presence  borrow 
Lessons  of  Hope,  and  lowly  Trust, 

That  He  whose  touch  revived  your  bloom 
Hath  the  same  power  o'er  this  poor  dust, 
To  raise  it  from  the  shadowy  tomb ! 


34S 


ELIZABETH  J.  EAMES. 


Thanks  for  your  presence !  for  ye  bring 

Back  to  the  aching  heart  and  eye 
Bright  visions  of  the  festal  Spring, 

Its  blossoms,  birds,  and  azure  sky. 
Now,  far  from  each  green  haunt  and  sunny  nook  estranged. 
Fading  and  faint,  I  lie ;  yet  in  my  heart  unchanged 
Glows  the  same  love  for  you,  fair  flowers. 

As  when  my  unchained  footsteps  trod 
Lightly  amidst  your  forest  bowers, 

And  plucked  ye  from  the  dewy  sod ! 

And  Thou,  who  gav'st  these  grateful  flowers, 
I  bless  thee  for  thy  thought  of  me  ! 

And  that  through  long  and  painful  hours 
My  vigils  have  been  shared  by  thee. 
I  bless  thee  for  the  kindness  and  care  which  ne'er  have  fal- 
tered. 

For  the  noble,  loving  heart  that  through  ill  remains  unaltered ' 
A  little  while,  companion  dear. 

And  e'en  thy  watchful  care  shall  cease ; 
0  grieve  not  when  the  hour  draws  near, 
But  thank  Heaven  that  it  bringeth  peace  ! 


SARA  J.  CLARKE. 


(GRACE  GREENWOOD.) 

The  birthplace  of  Miss  Clarke  is  a  small  village  in  New  York,  though 
she  is  generally  claimed  as  a  Western  poetess,  having  for  some  years  past 
resided  at  New  Brighton,  near  Pittsburg.  Her  poems  are  distinguished 
for  an  impassioned  earnestness,  and  strength  of  expression.  She  has  the 
English  accomplishment  of  fine  horsemanship,  and  handles  "  the  ribbons" 
as  gracefully  as  she  does  her  pen.  In  the  winter  of  1847  and  1848  she 
assumed  the  editorial  charge  of  "  Godey's  Lady's  Paper,"  which  she  con- 
ducted with  much  spirit  and  ability. 

ARIADNE.* 

Daughter  of  Crete — how  one  brief  hour, 

E'en  in  thy  young  love's  early  morn, 
Sends  storm  and  darkness  o'er  thy  bower — 

Oh  doomed,  oh  desolate,  oh  lorn ! 
The  breast  which  pillowed  thy  fair  head, 

Rejects  its  burden — and  the  eye 

Which  looked  its  love  so  earnestly, 
Its  last  cold  glance  hath  on  thee  shed ;  — 

*  The  demi-god,  Theseus,  having  won  the  love  of  Ariadne,  daughter  of  the 
King  of  Crete,  deserted  her  on  the  isle  of  Naxos.    In  Miss  Bremer's 

"  H  Family,"  the  blind  girl  is  described  as  singing  "  Ariadne  d 

Naxos,^''  in  which  Ariadne  is  represented  as  following  Theseus,  climbing  a 
high  rock  to  watch  his  departing  vessel,  and  calling  upon  him,  in  her  des- 
pairing anguish. 


350 


SARA  J.  CLARKE. 


The  arms  which  were  thy  living  zone, 
Around  thee  closely,  warmly  thrown. 
Shall  others  clasp — deserted  one  ! 

Yet,  Ariadne,  worthy  thou 
Of  the  dark  fate  which  meets  thee  now, 
For  thou  art  grovelling  in  thy  woe — 
Arouse  thee !  joy  to  bid  him  go ; 
For  God  above,  or  man  below. 
Whose  love's  warm  and  impetuous  tide 
Cold  interest  or  selfish  pride 
Can  chill,  or  stay,  or  turn  aside. 
Is  all  too  poor  and  mean  a  thing 
One  shade  o'er  woman's  brow  to  fling 

Of  grief,  regret,  or  fear — 
To  cloud  one  morning's  golden  light — 
Disturb  the  sweet  dreams  of  one  night  — 
To  cause  the  soft  lash  of  her  eye 
To  droop  one  moment  mournfully, 

Or  tremble  with  one  tear ! 

Tis  thou  shouldst  triumph — thou  art  free 
From  chains  which  bound  thee  for  awhile  — 

This,  this  the  farewell  meet  for  thee. 
Proud  Princess  on  that  lonely  isle  :  — 

"  Go — to  thine  Athens  bear  thy  faithless  name  ! 

Go,  base  betrayer  of  a  holy  trust ! 
Oh,  I  could  bow  me  in  my  utter  shame, 

And  lay  my  crimson  forehead  in  the  dust, 


SARA  J.  CLARKE. 


If  I  had  ever  loved  thee  as  thou  art, 

Folding  mean  falsehood  to  my  high  true  heart ! 

"But  thus  I  loved  thee  not — before  me  bowed 

A  being  glorious  in  majestic  pride, 
And  breathed  his  love,  and  passionately  vowed 

To  worship  only  me,  his  peerless  bride ; 
And  this  was  thou — but  crowned,  enrobed,  entwined 
With  treasures  borrowed  from  my  own  rich  mind ! 

"  I  knew  thee  not  a  creature  of  my  dreams, 
And  my  rapt  soul  went  floating  into  thine ! 

My  love  around  thee  poured  such  halo-beams, 
Hadst  thou  been  true  had  made  thee  all  divine  — 

And  I  too  seemed  immortal  in  my  bliss. 

When  my  glad  lip  thrilled  to  thy  burning  kiss ! 

"  Shrunken  and  shrivelled  into  Theseus  now 

Thou  stand'st.    Behold,  the  gods  have  blown  away 

The  airy  crown  that  glittered  on  thy  brow — 

The  gorgeous  robes  which  wrapped  thee  for  a  day ; 

Around  thee  scarce  one  fluttering  fragment  clings — ■ 

A  poor,  lean  beggar  in  all  glorious  things ! 

"Nor  will  I  deign  to  cast  on  thee  my  hate — 
It  were  a  ray  to  tinge  with  splendour  still 

The  dull,  dim  twilight  of  thy  after  fate — 

Thou  shalt  pass  from  me  like  a  dream  of  ill  — 

Thy  name  be  but  a  thing  that  crouching  stole 

Like  a  poor  thief,  unnoticed  from  my  soul ! 

45 


S52 


SARA  J.  CLARKE. 


"  Though  thou  hast  dared  to  steal  the  sacred  flame 
From  out  that  soul's  high  Heaven,  she  sets  thee  free ; 

Or  only  chains  thee  with  thy  sounding  shame — 
Her  memory  is  no  Caucasus  for  thee ; 

And  e'en  her  hovering  hate  would  o'er  thee  fling 

Too  much  of  glory  from  its  shadowy  wing ! 

"  Thou  think'st  to  leave  my  life  a  lonely  night — 
Ha !  it  is  night  all  glorious  with  its  stars ! 

Hopes  yet  unclouded  beaming  forth  their  light, 
And  free  thoughts  rolling  in  their  silver  cars ! 

And  queenly  pride,  serene,  and  cold,  and  high. 

Moves  the  Diana  of  its  calm,  clear  sky ! 

"  If  poor  and  humbled  thou  believest  me. 
Mole  of  a  demi-god,  how  blind  art  thou ! 

For  I  am  rich — in  scorn  to  pour  on  thee ! 

And  gods  shall  bend  from  high  Olympus'  brow, 

And  gaze  in  wonder  on  my  lofty  pride, 

Naxos  be  hallowed,  I  be  deified !" 

On  the  tall  cliff  where  cold  and  pale 
Thou  watchest  his  receding  sail. 
Where  thou,  the  daughter  of  a  king, 
Wail'st  like  a  wind-harp's  breaking  string, 
Bend'st  like  a  weak  and  wilted  flower 
Before  a  summer  evening's  shower, — 
There  shouldst  thou  rear  thy  royal  form, 
Like  a  young  oak  amid  the  storm, 


SARA  J.  CLARKE. 


Uncrushed,  unbowed,  unriven ! 
Let  thy  last  glance  burn  through  the  air, 
And  fall  far  down  upon  him  there, 

Like  lightning-stroke  from  Heaven ! 

There  shouldst  thou  mark  o'er  billowy  crest 
His  white  sail  flutter  and  depart. 

No  wild  fears  surging  at  thy  breast. 

No  vain  hopes  quivering  round  thy  heart ; 

And  this  brief,  burning  prayer  alone 

Leap  from  thy  lips  to  Jove's  high  throne  : — 

"  Just  Jove  !  Thy  wrathful  vengeance  stay, 
And  speed  the  traitor  on  his  way ! 
Make  vain  the  Siren's  silver  song, 
Let  Nereids  smile  the  wave  along — 
O'er  the  wild  waters  send  his  bark 
Like  a  swift  arrow  to  its  mark ! 
Let  whirlwinds  gather  at  his  back. 
And  drive  him  on  his  dastard  track ! 
Let  thy  red  bolts  behind  him  burn, 
And  blast  him,  should  he  dare  to  turn !" 


354 


SARA  J.  CLAEKE. 


THE  HORSEBACK  RIDE. 

When  troubled  in  spirit,  when  weary  of  life, 

When  I  faint  'neath  its  burdens,  and  shrink  from  its  strife, — 

When  its  fruits,  turned  to  ashes,  are  mocking  my  taste, 

And  its  fairest  scene  seems  but  a  desolate  waste ; 

Then  come  ye  not  near  me,  my  sad  heart  to  cheer 

With  friendship's  soft  accents,  or  sympathy's  tear — 

No  counsel  I  ask,  and  no  pity  I  need. 

But  bring  me,  oh,  bring  me  my  gallant  young  steed ! 

With  his  high-arched  neck,  and  his  nostril  spread  wide, 

His  eye  full  of  fire,  and  his  step  full  of  pride ! 

As  I  spring  to  his  back,  as  I  seize  the  strong  rein. 

The  strength  to  my  spirit  returneth  again ! 

The  bonds  are  all  broken  which  fettered  my  mind. 

And  my  cares  borne  away  on  the  wings  of  the  wind ! 

My  pride  lifts  its  head,  for  a  season  bowed  down. 

And  the  queen  in  my  nature  now  puts  on  her  crown. 

Now  we're  off!  like  the  winds,  to  the  plains  whence  they 
came. 

And  the  rapture  of  motion  is  thrilling  my  frame. 
On,  on  speeds  my  courser,  scarce  printing  the  sod. 
Scarce  crushing  a  daisy  to  mark  where  he  trod ! 
On,  on,  like  a  deer,  when  the  hounds'  early  bay 
Awakes  the  wild  echoes,  away,  and  away ! 
Still  faster,  still  faster,  he  leaps  at  my  cheer. 
Till  the  rush  of  the  startled  air  whirrs  in  my  ear ! 


SARA  J.  CLARKE. 


355 


Now  'long  a  clear  rivulet  lieth  his  track, 
See  his  glancing  hoofs  tossing  the  white  pebbles  back ! 
Now  a  glen,  dark  as  midnight — what  matter  ?  we  '11  down, 
Though  shadows  are  round  us,  and  rocks  o'er  us  frown, — 
The  thick  branches  shake,  as  we  're  hurrying  through, 
And  deck  us  with  spangles  of  silvery  dew  ! 

What  a  wild  thought  of  triumph,  that  this  girlish  hand 

Such  a  steed  in  the  might  of  his  strength  may  command ! 

What  a  glorious  creature !    Ah,  glance  at  him  now, 

As  I  check  him  awhile  on  this  green  hillock's  brow ; 

How  he  tosses  his  mane,  with  a  shrill,  joyous  neigh. 

And  paws  the  firm  earth  in  his  proud  stately  play ! 

Hurrah !  off  again,  dashing  on,  as  in  ire. 

Till  the  long,  flinty  pathway  is  flashing  with  fire ! 

Ho,  a  ditch — shall  we  pause  ?  no,  the  bold  leap  we  dare, 

Like  a  swift-winged  arrow  we  rush  through  the  air ! 

Oh,  not  all  the  pleasures  that  poets  may  praise. 

Not  the  wildering  waltz  in  the  ball-room's  blaze, 

Nor  the  chivalrous  joust,  nor  the  daring  race, — 

Nor  the  swift  regatta,  nor  merry  chase  — 

Nor  the  sail,  high  heaving  the  waters  o'er — 

Nor  the  rural  dance  on  the  moonlight  shore. 

Can  the  wild  and  thrilling  joy  exceed 

Of  a  fearless  leap  on  a  fiery  steed ! 


SARA  J.  CLARKE. 


A  SONG. 

We  must  silence  with  words  of  cold  reason 

The  eloquent  voice  of  the  heart ; 
For  Love  hath  stayed  out  his  brief  season, 

And  spread  his  joung  wing  to  depart ! 
Though  awhile  round  our  memory  he  hovers. 

He  may  smilingly  offer  no  more 
Fond  words,  the  ambrosia  of  lovers, 

Nor  the  nectar  of  passion  outpour ! 

Our  last  tearful  farewell  is  spoken. 

Life's  sweet  morning  vision  hath  flown ! 
Each  vow,  each  glad  promise  is  broken 

That  twined  our  twin  beings  in  one ! 
And  severed  are  love's  golden  fetters — 

And  sympathy's  silvery  chain;  — 
So,  please  sir,  return  me  my  letters, 

I  may  wish  to  use  them  again  ! 


MRS.  J.  C.  NEAL. 


The  subject  of  this  notice,  bettei-  known  by  the  nom  de  plume  of  "Alice 
G.  Lee,"  is  a  native  of  Hudson,  New  York.  In  the  fall  of  1846  she  was 
married  to  Joseph  C.  Neal,  whose  death,  in  a  few  subsequent  months,  his 
friends  and  the  universal  pubhc  were  called  to  mourn.  Mrs.  Neal,  on  the 
decease  of  her  husband,  became  one  of  the  proprietors  and  editors  of 
"  Neal's  Gazette,"  one  of  the  best  of  the  "  great  weeklies,"  to  which  she 
contributed  much  to  sustain  the  high  tone  which  characterizes  that  paper. 

THE  BRIDE'S  CONFESSION. 

A  SUDDEN  thrill  passed  through  my  heart, 

Wild  and  intense — yet  not  of  pain — 
I  strove  to  quell  quick,  bounding  throbs, 

And  scanned  the  sentence  o'er  again. 
It  might  have  been  full  idly  penned 

By  one  v^rhose  thoughts  from  love  were  free, 
And  yet  as  if  entranced  I  read 

"  Thou  art  most  beautiful  to  me." 

Thou  didst  not  w^hisper  I  was  dear — 
There  were  no  gleams  of  tenderness. 

Save  those  my  trembling  heart  would  hope 
That  careless  sentence  might  express. 

But  while  the  blinding  tears  fell  fast, 
Until  the  words  I  scarce  could  see, 


358 


MRS.  J.  C.  NEAL. 


There  shone,  as  through  a  wreathing  mist, 
"  Thou  art  most  beautiful  to  me." 

To  thee !    I  cared  not  for  all  eyes 

So  I  was  beautiful  in  thine ; 
A  timid  star,  my  faint,  sad  beams 

Upon  thy  path  alone  should  shine. 
Oh,  what  was  praise,  save  from  thy  lips  — 

And  love  should  all  unheeded  be 
So  I  could  hear  thy  blessed  voice 

Say — "  Thou  art  beautiful  to  me." 

And  I  have  heard  those  very  words — 

Blushing  beneath  thine  earnest  gaze — 
Though  thou,  perchance,  hadst  quite  forgot 

They  had  been  said  in  by-gone  days. 
While  clasped  hand,  and  circling  arm, 

Drew  me  still  nearer  unto  thee — 
Thy  low  voice  breathed  upon  mine  ear 

"  Thou,  love,  art  beautiful  to  me." 

And,  dearest,  though  thine  eyes  alone 

May  see  in  me  a  single  grace  — 
I  care  not  so  thou  e'er  canst  find 

A  hidden  sweetness  in  my  face. 
And  if,  as  years  and  cares  steal  on, 

Even  that  lingering  light  must  flee, 
What  matter  ?  if  from  thee  I  hear 

"  Thou  art  still  beautiful  to  me  !" 


MRS.  J.  C.  NEAL. 


TOO  LATE! 
"I  have  outlived  all  love." — Bulwer's  Richelieu. 

Oh,  weary  thought !  Oh,  heart  cast  down  and  lone  ! 

Oh,  hapless  spirit !  burdened  with  a  grief 
That  giveth  utterance  to  the  mournful  tone 

Of  this  low  murmur,  words  so  full — so  high  — 
"  Outlived  all  love." 

Did  God  deny  thee  gifts  by  which  to  win 

Affection  from  the  crowd  that  round  thee  throng  ? 

Or  didst  thou  l©se  by  folly — or  by  sin 

The  hope  that  else  had  .made  thy  soul  most  strong 
Of  gaining  love  ? 

When  first  thy  mother  clasped  thee  in  her  arms, 
And  bade  thy  father  watch  thine  infant  glee  — 

Why  did  her  soul  thrill  with  such  wild  alarms 
And  bounding  hopes  ?  Was  it  not  all  for  thee  ? 

Did  not  she  love  ? 

Childhood  mourns  not  for  friends.    It  passed  away. 

Then  on  thyself  depended  future  joy. 
Retrace  thy  footsteps,  did  those  friends  betray 

The  trust  bestowed  by  thee — a  fair-browed  boy, 
Living  in  love  ? 

46 


360 


MRS.  J.  C.  NEAL. 


Nay — one  by  one  they  turned — thy  heart  was  proud, 
Thy  mood  suspicious,  and  they  could  not  brook 

The  coldness  and  reserve,  that  as  a  cloud 

Veiled  all  thy  movements,  chilling  every  look 
That  asked  for  love. 

Thy  manhood's  prime  was  glorious — it  is  past; 

Ambition's  thirst  is  slaked — a  dreary  void 
Taketh  the  place  of  schemes  that  once  so  fast 

Hurried  thee  onward,  life  and  thought  employed, 
Shutting  out  love. 

Too  late — too  late !  Thou  canst  not  win  them  back — 
The  friends  of  youth,  the  love  of  riper  years. 

Alone,  pass  onward  in  the  narrow  track 

Which  thou  hast  chosen — learn  with  bitter  tears, 
That  man  needs  love. 

'T  is  God's  best  gift — be  wise  and  scan  it  not, 
Thou  who  art  strong  in  pride  of  hope  and  life. 

The  brightest  gleam  that  gilds  our  darkened  lot. 
Lighting  us  onward  through  its  fearful  strife. 
Oh,  priceless  love ! 

And  if  thy  soul  is  steeled  against  mankind, 

Pause — e'er  thy  hearth  grows  cold  and  desolate. 

Cheer  those  who  droop — the  wounded  spirit  bind — 
Win  hearts,  and  it  shall  never  be  thy  fate 
To  outlive  love. 


HANNAH  JANE  WOODMAN. 


Miss  Woodman  is  a  native  of  Boston,  and  has  been  for  several  years  a 
teacher  in  the  public  schools  of  that  city. 

WHEN  WILT  THOU  LOVE  ME? 

Love  me  when  the  Spring  is  here, 

With  its  busy  bird  and  bee ; 
When  the  air  is  soft  and  clear, 

And  the  heart  is  full  of  glee ; 
When  the  leaves  and  buds  are  seen 

Bursting  from  the  naked  bough, 
Dearest,  with  a  faith  serene. 

Wilt  thou  love  me  then  as  now  ? 

When  the  queenly  June  is  dressed 

In  her  robes  so  fair  and  bright ; 
When  the  earth,  most  richly  blessed, 

Sleeps  in  soft  and  golden  light ; 
When  the  sweetest  songs  are  heard 

In  the  forest,  on  the  hill, — 
When  thy  soul  by  these  is  stirred. 

Dearest,  wilt  thou  love  me  still  ? 


HANNAH  JANE  WOODMAN. 


When  the  harvest-moon  looks  out 

On  the  fields  of  ripened  grain; 
When  the  merry  reapers  shout 

While  they  glean  the  burdened  plain 
When,  their  labours  o'er,  they  sit 

Listening  to  the  night-bird's  lay. 
May  there  o'er  thy  memory  flit 

Thoughts  of  one  far,  far  away ! 

When  the  winter  hunts  the  bird 

From  his  leafy  home  and  bower ; 
When  the  bee,  no  longer  heard. 

Bides  the  cold,  ungenial  hour ; 
When  the  blossoms  rise  no  more 

From  the  garden,  field,  and  glen ; 
When  our  forest  joys  are  o'er. 

Dearest,  wilt  thou  love  me  then  ? 

Love  for  ever !  't  is  the  spring 

Whence  our  choicest  blessings  flow ! 
Angel  harps  its  praises  sing. 

Angel  hearts  its  secrets  know. 
When  thy  feet  are  turned  away 

From  the  busy  haunts  of  men, 
When  thy  feet  in  Eden  stray. 

Dearest,  wilt  thou  love  me  then? 


HARRIET  WINSLOW  LIST. 


The  author  of  the  subjoined  beautiful  poems  is  a  native  of  Portland, 
Maine,  where  she  resided  until  her  marriage  with  Mr.  Charles  List  in  1848, 

TO  THE  UNSATISFIED. 

Why  thus  longing,  thus  for  ever  sighing 
For  the  far-otf,  unattained,  and  dim ; 

While  the  beautiful  all  around  thee  lying, 
Offers  up  its  low,  perpetual  hymn  ? 

Wouldst  thou  listen  to  its  gentle  teaching, 
All  thy  restless  yearning  it  would  still ; 

Leaf  and  flower,  and  laden  bee  are  preaching 
Thine  own  sphere,  though  humble,  first  to  fill. 

Poor  indeed  thou  must  be,  if  around  thee 
Thou  no  ray  of  light  and  joy  canst  throw ; 

If  no  silken  cord  of  love  hath  bound  thee 
To  some  little  world  through  weal  or  woe ; 

If  no  dear  eyes  thy  fond  love  can  brighten, — 
No  fond  voices  answer  to  thine  own ; 

If  no  brother's  sorrow  thou  canst  lighten 
By  daily  sympathy  and  gentle  tone. 


364 


HARRIET  WINSLOW  LIST. 


Not  by  deeds  that  win  the  crowd's  applauses ; 

Not  by  works  that  give  thee  world-renown ; 
Not  by  martyrdom,  or  vaunted  crosses, 

Canst  thou  win  and  wear  the  immortal  crown : 

Daily  struggling,  though  unloved  and  lonely, 
Every  day  a  rich  reward  will  give ; 

Thou  wilt  find,  by  hearty  striving  only, 
And  truly  loving,  thou  canst  truly  live. 

Dost  thou  revel  in  the  rosy  morning, 
When  all  nature  hails  the  lord  of  light ; 

And  his  smile,  the  mountain-tops  adorning. 
Robes  yon  fragrant  fields  in  radiance  bright  ? 

Other  hands  may  grasp  the  field  and  forest ; 

Proud  proprietors  in  pomp  may  shine : 
But  with  fervent  love  if  thou  adorest. 

Thou  art  wealthier;  —  all  the  world  is  thine. 

Yet,  if  through  earth's  wide  domains  thou  rovest. 
Sighing  that  they  are  not  thine  alone, 

Not  those  fair  fields,  but  thyself,  thou  lovest. 
And  their  beauty  and  thy  wealth  are  gone. 

Nature  wears  the  colours  of  the  spirit ; 

Sweetly  to  her  worshipper  she  sings ; 
All  the  glory,  grace,  she  doth  inherit. 

Round  her  trusting  child  she  fondly  flings. 


HARRIET  WINSLOW  LIST. 


365 


MORNING  AND  NIGHT. 

She  comes !  the  universe  awakes  to  greet  her, 
With  rapturous  joy  the  heart  of  nature  thrills, 

Bright  thoughts  and  buoyant  hopes  leap  forth  to  meet  her, 
And  life  at  her  warm  glance  the  faint  heart  fills. 

The  heavens  reflect  the  azure  of  her  eye, 

The  earth  gives  back  her  sweet  and  radiant  smile, 

The  wind  and  waters  to  her  voice  reply. 

And  chant  the  measure  of  her  step  meanwhile. 

Her  airy  footfalls  scarcely  brush  the  dews. 

And  leave  where'er  they  light  a  greener  trace : 

Her  radiant  eyes  give  to  the  flowers  their  hues. 

Her  breath  their  fragrance,  and  her  touch  their  grace. 

Her  lustrous  hair  has  caught  the  sun's  bright  beams. 
And  robbed  them  of  their  gay  and  golden  store  ; 

The  rainbow  she  hath  rifled,  and  it  seems 
Enrobing  her  to  win  one  grace  the  more. 

Darkness  and  sin,  beneath  her  searching  glances. 
Shrink  swiftly,  cowering  and  abashed,  away. 

And  fear  and  cankered  care,  as  she  advances. 
Vanish  like  phantoms  that  avoid  the  day. 

She  passes  on,  and  ever  in  her  train 

Follows  a  joyous  troop  of  rosy  hours ; 
O'er  pride  and  luxury,  penury  and  pain. 

O'er  rich  and  poor  alike,  her  wealth  she  showers. 


HARRIET  WINSLOW  LIST. 

She  stops  not  at  the  mansions  of  the  great, 
She  gladdens  the  poor  sinner's  lonely  cell : 

She  lights  the  lowly  hut,  the  halls  of  state, 
And  lingers  fondly  where  her  lovers  dwell. 

Gently  she  passes  from  the  world  away, 

And  the  earth  seems  a  shade  less  fair  and  young, 

Yet  memory  of  her,  throughout  the  day, 
Speeds  lightly  all  the  after  hours  along. 

But  daylight  dies,  and  lo  !  a  loftier  presence 

Fills  the  green  courts  where  late  her  reign  hath  been, 

Her  subjects  all  forsake  their  old  allegiance. 
And  offer  homage  to  a  rival  queen. 

She  comes  not,  like  her  younger  sister,  calling 
The  world  to  welcome  her  with  song  and  dance  : 

Lightly  and  noiselessly  her  spells  are  falling. 

And  the  awed  earth  is  hushed  beneath  her  glance. 

A  holier  radiance  lights  her  earnest  eye, 
A  heavenly  halo  crowns  her  paler  brow. 

The  sense  was  taken  willing  captive  then, 

The  soul  bows  down  with  deeper  reverence  now. 

The  moon  and  stars  attend  her  on  her  way, 
And,  by  their  pale  and  mystic  light,  reveal 

The  grace  her  every  motion  doth  betray. 

The  form  her  shadowy  robes  would  fain  conceal. 


HARRIET  WINSLOW  LIST. 


At  her  approach,  the  flowers  bending  low, 
Incline  their  graceful  heads  in  silent  prayer ; 

And,  while  her  gentle  hands  sweet  dews  bestow, 
Their  fragrant  lips  anoint  her  trailing  hair. 

She  brings  dear  visions  to  the  home-sick  mind. 
And  welcome  rest  to  the  o'erwearied  limbs ; 

She  gives  a  foretaste  of  those  realms  divine, 
Whose  glory  and  whose  purity  she  hymns. 

Like  some  sweet  strain  of  music,  sad  and  low, 
Her  presence  moves  the  inmost  soul,  and  seems 

To  waken  memories  of  long  ago, 

To  image  the  beloved  we  meet  in  dreams. 

All  high  and  holy  mysteries  attend  her, 
All  gentle  influences  round  her  throng, 

And  spiritual  beings  freely  lend  her 

The  glory  that  to  their  own  spheres  belong. 

Kind  angel !  without  thy  alternate  reign, 
Morn  were  no  longer  beautiful  and  bright : 

Her  sunniest  smile  and  glance,  her  sweetest  strain, 
Her  dearest  spells  she  owes  to  thee,  0  Night! 

47 


ELIZA  L.  FOLLEN. 


This  lady,  whose  maiden  name  was  Cabot,  is  a  native  of  Boston.  In 
1S28  she  was  married  to  Professor  Charles  Follen,  of  Cambridge,  who  in 
1840  was  lost  in  the  steamer  Lexington.  Mrs.  Follen  is  the  author  of 
numerous  volumes  in  prose,  such  as  "  The  Skeptic,"  "  Translations  from 
Fenelon,"  "Sketches  of  Married  Life,"  "The  Well-spent  Hour,"  and  "A 
Biography  of  the  late  Charles  Follen."  A  volume  of  her  poems  appeared 
in  Boston  in  1839. 

WINTER  SCENES  IN  THE  COUNTRY. 

The  short,  dull,  rainy  day  drew  to  a  close ; 
No  gleam  burst  forth  upon  the  western  hills, 
With  smiling  promise  of  a  brighter  day, 
Dressing  the  leafless  woods  with  golden  light ; 
But  the  dense  fog  hung  its  dark  curtain  round. 
And  the  unceasing  rain  poured  like  a  torrent  on. 
The  wearied  inmates  of  the  house  draw  near 
The  cheerful  fire ;  the  shutters  all  are  closed  ; 
A  brightening  look  spreads  round,  that  seems  to  say, 
Now  let  the  darkness  and  the  rain  prevail ; 
Here  all  is  bright !    How  beautiful  is  the  sound 
Of  the  descending  rain  !  how  soft  the  wind 
Through  the  wet  branches  of  the  drooping  elms  ! 
But  hark !  far  otf,  beyond  the  sheltering  hills 
Is  heard  the  gathering  tempest's  distant  swell. 
Threatening  the  peaceful  valley  ere  it  comes. 


ELIZA  L.  FOLLEN. 


369 


The  stream  that  glided  through  its  pebbly  way 

To  its  own  sweet  music,  now  roars  hoarsely  on ; 

The  woods  send  forth  a  deep  and  heavy  sigh ; 

The  gentle  south  has  ceased ;  the  rude  northwest, 

Rejoicing  in  his  strength,  comes  rushing  forth. 

The  rain  is  changed  into  a  driving  sleet. 

And,  when  the  fitful  wind  a  moment  lulls, 

The  feathery  snow,  almost  inaudible, 

Falls  on  the  window-panes,  as  soft  and  still 

As  the  light  brushings  of  an  angel's  wings. 

Or  the  sweet  visitings  of  quiet  thoughts 

Midst  the  wild  tumult  of  this  stormy  life. 

The  tightened  strings  of  nature's  ceaseless  harp. 

Send  forth  a  shrill  and  piercing  melody, 

As  the  full  swell  returns.    The  night  comes  on, 

And  sleep,  upon  this  little  world  of  ours, 

Spreads  out  her  sheltering,  healing  wings ;  and  man, — 

The  heaven-inspired  soul  of  this  fair  earth, 

The  bold  interpreter  of  nature's  voice, 

Giving  a  language  even  to  the  stars — 

Unconscious  of  the  throbbings  of  his  heart, — 

Is  still ;  and  all  unheeded  is  the  storm. 

Save  by  the  wakeful  few  who  love  the  night ; 

Those  pure  and  active  spirits  that  are  placed 

As  guards  o'er  wayward  man ;  they  who  show  forth 

God's  holy  image  on  the  soul  impressed. 

They  listen  to  the  music  of  the  storm, 

And  hold  high  converse  with  the  unseen  world  ; 

They  wake,  and  watch,  and  pray,  while  others  sleep. 


ELIZA  L.  FOLLEN. 


The  stormy  night  has  passed ;  the  eastern  clouds 
Glow  with  the  morning's  ray ;  but  who  shall  tell 
The  peerless  glories  of  this  winter  day  ? 
Nature  has  put  her  jewels  on,  one  blaze 
Of  sparkling  light  and  ever-varying  hues 
Bursts  on  the  enraptured  sight. 
The  smallest  twig  with  brilliants  hangs  its  head ; 
The  graceful  elm  and  all  the  forest  trees 
Have  on  a  crystal  coat  of  mail,  and  seem 
All  decked  and  tricked  out  for  a  holiday, 
And  every  stone  shines  in  its  wreath  of  gems. 
The  pert,  familiar  robin,  as  he  flies 
From  spray  to  spray,  showers  diamonds  around, 
And  moves  in  rainbow  light  where'er  he  goes. 
The  universe  looks  glad ;  but  words  are  vain. 
To  paint  the  wonders  of  the  splendid  show. 
The  heart  exults  with  uncontrolled  delight. 
The  glorious  pageant  slowly  moves  away. 
As  the  sun  sinks  behind  the  western  hills. 
So  Fancy,  for  a  short  and  fleeting  day. 
May  shed  upon  the  cold  and  barren  earth 
Her  bright  enchantments  and  her  dazzling  hues ; 
And  thus  they  melt  and  fade  away,  and  leave 
A  cold  and  dull  reality  behind. 

But  see  where  in  the  clear,  unclouded  sky, 
The  crescent  moon,  with  calm  and  sweet  rebuke. 
Doth  charm  away  the  spirit  of  complaint ! 
Her  tender  light  falls  on  the  snow-clad  hills. 
Like  the  pure  thoughts  that  angels  might  bestow 
Upon  this  world  of  beauty,  and  of  sin. 


ELIZA  L.  FOLLEN. 


That  mingle  not  with  that  whereon  they  rest ; — 
So  should  immortal  spirits  dwell  below. 
There  is  a  holy  influence  in  the  moon, 
And  in  the  countless  hosts  of  silent  stars, 
The  heart  cannot  resist :  its  passions  sleep, 
And  all  is  still ;  save  that  which  shall  awake 
When  all  this  vast  and  fair  creation  sleeps. 


"BY  FAITH  YE  ARE  SAVED." 

Christian  !  when,  overwhelmed  with  grief  and  care 
Thou  prayest  for  the  help  that  thou  dost  need, 
As  shipwrecked  mariner  for  life  will  plead : 

0,  then,  for  faith  pour  forth  the  fervent  prayer ! 

'T  is  faith  alone,  life's  heavy  ills  can  bear. 
0,  mark  her  calm,  far-seeing,  quickening  eye. 
Full  of  the  light  of  immortality  : 
It  tells  of  worlds  unseen,  and  calls  us  there ; 
That  look  of  hers  can  save  thee  from  despair. 

When  sorrow,  like  thick  darkness,  gathers  round. 
And  all  life's  flowers  are  fading  in  the  dust. 

Faith  lifts  our  drooping  vision  from  the  ground, — 
Says,  that  the  hand  that  smites  us  yet  is  just ; 

That  human  agony  hath  ever  found 
The  mighty  God  a  never-failing  trust. 


ELIZA  L.  FOLLEN 


TO  SPRING. 

Hail!  reviving,  joyous  Spring, 

Smiling  through  thy  veil  of  showers 

Birds  and  brooks  thy  welcome  sing: 
Haste,  and  waken  all  thy  flowers. 

Hark!  a  sweet  pervading  sound 
From  the  breathing,  moving  earth! 

Life  is  starting  all  around, 

Sending  joy  and  fragrance  forth. 

O'er  the  oak's  gigantic  form 
Blossoms  hang  their  drapery ; 

Branches  that  defied  the  storm 
Now  are  full  of  melody. 

There  is  not  a  silent  thing 

In  this  joyous  company : 
Woods,  and  hills,  and  valleys  ring 

With  a  shout  of  jubilee. 

Wake  my  spirit !  art  thou  still  ? 

Senseless  things  have  found  a  voice; 
Shall  this  throbbing  heart  be  still, 

When  all  nature  cries,  "  Rejoice  ?" 

Memory,  with  thy  tell-tale  sigh. 
Hide  thy  wreath  of  faded  flowers; 

Turn  away  thy  tearful  eye : 
Speak  not  of  departed  hours! 


ELIZA  L.  FOLLEN. 


Tell  me  not  of  broken  ties; 

Point  not  at  the  silent  tomb ; 
Whisper  not  that  human  joys 

Wither  amidst  nature's  bloom. 

Wake,  come  forth,  my  bounding  soul! 

Join  the  universal  glee ; 
Yield  to  nature's  kind  control ; 

Catch  her  heavenly  harmony. 

Join  the  grateful,  happy  throng; 

Cast  each  selfish  care  away; 
Birds  and  brooks  shall  tune  your  song 

This  is  nature's  holiday. 


MARIA  LOWELL. 


This  lady,  whose  maiden  name  was  White,  is  a  native  of  Watertown, 
near  Boston.  In  1844  she  was  married  to  James  Russel  Lowell,  the  poet, 
with  whom  she  resides  in  Cambridge,  Massachusetts.  Her  poetry,  of 
which  she  has  published  but  too  little,  is  remarkable  for  pure  beauty  of 
thought,  clothed  in  the  richest  yet  simplest  mantle  of  expression. 

SONNET. 
IN  ABSENCE. 

These  rugged,  wintry  days  I  scarce  could  bear, 
Did  I  not  know,  that,  in  the  early  spring, 
When  wild  March-winds  upon  their  errands  sing, 

Thou  wouldst  return,  bursting  on  this  still  air. 

Like  those  same  winds,  when,  startled  from  their  lair, 
They  hunt  up  violets,  and  free  swift  brooks 
From  icy  cares,  even  as  thy  clear  looks 

Bid  my  heart  bloom,  and  sing,  and  break  all  care : 

When  drops  with  welcome  rain  the  April  day, 
My  flowers  shall  find  their  April  in  thine  eyes, 

Save  there  the  rain  in  dreamy  clouds  doth  stay, 
As  loath  to  fall  out  of  those  happy  skies ; 

Yet  sure,  my  love,  thou  art  most  like  to  May, 
That  comes  with  steady  sun  when  April  dies. 


MARIA  LOWELL. 


375 


THE  WREATH. 

(after  the  GERMAN  OF  UHLAND.) 

She  gathered  many  little  flowers, 
The  child,  in  sunny  meadows  fair ; 

A  lady  stepped  from  forest  bowers 
Of  beauty  wondrous  rare. 

Before  the  child  she  stands  so  still. 
And  binds  a  garland  on  her  hair, 

"It  blooms  not  now,  but  bloom  it  will, 
Oh  keep  it  ever  there." 

And  when  the  child  hath  grown  in  years. 

And  walks  the  holy  morn  beneath, 
And  weepeth  sweet  and  tender  tears. 

Then  buds  the  little  wreath. 

And  when  her  dear  and  true  bridegroom, 
Folded  her  closely  to  his  heart : 

Ah,  then  the  flower's  perfect  bloom 
From  every  bud  did  start. 

And  when  a  lovely  child  she  bore. 

Rocked  on  her  breast  with  mother's  care, 

The  green  and  flowered  garland  wore 
A  golden  fruitage  rare. 

48 


MARIA  LOWELL. 


And  when  her  love  was  sunken  where 

The  grave  doth  hold  its  night  of  grief, 
Then  showed  upon  her  careless  hair 
The  faded  autumn  leaf. 

Soon  she  lay  white  within  her  tomb, 
And  soon  her  rightful  wreath  she  gains 

Such  golden  fruit  and  starry  bloom 
We  see  not  on  earth's  plains. 


MRS.  GRAY. 


This  lady  is  the  daughter  of  the  late  William  Lewers,  Esq.,  and  wife 
of  the  Rev.  John  Gray,  D.D.,  pastor  of  the  First  Presbyterian  Church  in 
the  borough  of  Easton,  Pa.  By  her  father,  she  is  related  to  some  of  the 
bravest  spirits  of  the  American  Revolution.  James  Montgomery  has  com- 
plimented her  poetic  powers,  and  Sir  Robert  Brewster  had  an  edition  of  her 
poems  printed  for  circulation  among  his  literary  friends  in  England :  while 
about  the  same  time  the  British  press  presented  another  to  the  public  as  a 
specimen  of  American  poetry. 

MEMORIES  OF  THE  HEART. 

TO  FANNY. 

Yes,  Fanny,  I  remember  well  thy  mother's  gentle  mien. 
The  broad  expanse  of  that  fair  brow,  all  passionless,  serene  ; 
The  blue  eyes'  lengthened  languish,  the  cheek's  soft,  peach- 
like hue ; 

Yes,  I  remember  she  was  fair,  yet  not  so  fair  as  you. 

I  see  her  now  as  I  was  wont,  that  dark-brown,  glossy  hair, 
So  modestly  and  smoothly  combed,  upon  her  forehead  fair ; 
The  smile  so  transient,  yet  so  sweet,  that  o'er  her  features 
moved. 

The  voice  so  soft,  the  words  so  kind,  all  loved,'  for  all  were 
loved. 


378 


MRS.  GRAY. 


The  very  robe  that  wrapped  her  form,  seemed  made  the  heart 
to  win, 

For  purity  and  grace  without,  forth-figured  grace  within ; 
No  glittering  diamond  decked  her  brow,  no  gem  her  finger 
bore, 

A  meek  and  quiet  spirit  was  the  ornament  she  wore. 

0  Fanny,  when  that  loving  lip  was  first  to  thine  impressed. 
She  fondly  thought  of  years  to  come  in  shadeless  pleasure 
dressed ; 

Her  fancy  brightly  pictured  thee  to  woman's  stature  grown, 
In  all  thy  youth  and  loveliness,  her  beautiful,  her  own. 

When  on  thy  infant  face  she  gazed,  in  rapture's  fondest  mood. 
She  thought  of  many  a  blandishment  to  lure  thee  to  be  good ; 
Of  many  a  gentle,  kind  reproof,  of  warnings  to  be  given ; 
Of  flowers  to  strew  along  the  path,  she  trod,  with  thee,  to 
heaven. 

Yet  when  she  heard  her  Saviour's  voice  in  sweetest  accents 
say 

"  Come,  my  beloved!"  she  rose  in  haste  to  take  her  heaven- 
ward way ; — 

0,  if  there  was  one  earthly  grief  her  joyful  spirit  knew, 
One  tear  to  dim  her  closing  eye,  that  tear  was  shed  for  you. 

When  sevefed  were  the  links  that  bound  the  spirit  and  the 
clay, 

And  the  light  wing  was  gladly  poised  to  bear  the  soul  away ; 


MRS.  GRAY. 


379 


Yet  was  one  silken  tie  unloosed,  one  golden  band  unriven. 
Maternal  love,  a  lengthening  chain,  connected  earth  and 
heaven. 

Perhaps  when  others  sleep  she  comes  upon  thy  brow  to  gaze, 
And  watches  all  thy  slumbering  thoughts  and  all  thy  waking 
ways ; 

When  devious  to  the  right  or  left,  thy  wandering  footsteps 
stray. 

She  longs  to  breathe  a  warning  word,  and  point  the  narrow 
way. 

No  form  I  see,  no  voice  I  hear,  nor  sigh,  nor  sound  reveal 
The  pure  emotions,  undefined,  that  o'er  my  spirits  steal ; 
Thoughts  high,  unutterable,  vast,  to  my  rapt  soul  are  given, 
Revealings  bright,  communings  sweet,  strange  intercourse 
with  heaven. 

0,  can  it  be  her  soul  and  mine  that  meet  and  mingle  now  ? — 
Is  this  her  soft,  ethereal  wing,  that  fans  my  fevered  brow  ? — 
With  the  dim,  distant  spirit-land  can  such  communings  be  ? — 
Her  hovering  shade  indite  the  lines  my  fingers  write  for 
thee? 

0  cause  of  many  an  anxious  thought,  of  many  a  tender  tear, 
Of  sorrow  and  of  happiness,  of  mingling  hope  and  fear ; 
From  earth's  temptations,  sins,  and  fears,  fly  to  the  Saviour's 
breast. 

There,  only  there,  is  safety  found,  and  blessedness,  and  rest. 


380 


MRS.  GRAY. 


Oh,  beauty  fadeth  as  the  flower  upon  the  frail  May-rose  ; 
Favour  is  transient  as  the  stay  of  April's  falling  snows ; 
But  she,  whose  willing  feet  delight  to  tread  fair  Wisdom's 
ways, 

Whose  thoughts  are  pure,  whose  actions  right,  0 !  she  shall 
have  the  praise. 

Now  blame  not,  praise  not,  that  for  you  I  write  these  warn- 
ing words : 

My  passive  harp  was  tuned  and  strung,  another  touched  the 
chords ; 

Hopes  cherished  by  thy  cradle-bed,  prayers  that  thou  didst 
not  hear. 

Breathed  by  her  spirit  to  my  soul,  I  whisper  in  thine  ear. 


FUNERAL  DIRGE. 

ON    THE    DEATH    OF   A    CHRISTIAN  STATESMAN. 

He  has  gone — he  has  gone,  and  the  tears  that  we  shed. 

Are  shed  that  from  earth  a  bright  spirit  has  passed ; 
That  a  star  from  our  zenith  of  freedom  has  fled  — 

That  the  gem  of  our  diadem 's  fallen  at  last. 
His  dust  to  embalm  from  the  east  shall  we  bring 

Her  gems  and  her  spices  most  precious  and  rare  ? 
The  odours  of  Edom  around  shall  we  fling  ? 

Or  load  with  the  sweets  of  Arabia  the  air  ? 


MRS.  GRAY. 


381 


Ah !  vain  is  the  task  to  bring  perfumes  from  far, 

To  hallow  the  grave  where  the  wicked  may  rest ; 
But  the  deeds  of  the  righteous,  how  fragrant  they  are, 

More  pure  than  the  incense  of  Araby's  breast ! 
We  need  not  his  spices  to  sweeten  thy  bed ; 

We  need  not  her  balm  to  be  treasured  for  thee ; 
Thy  name  shall  be  verdant  with  tears  that  we  shed, 

Thy  memory  embalmed  with  the  sighs  of  the  free  ! 

No  urn  from  afar  shall  thy  ashes  enshrine ; 

No  tomb  of  a  tyrant  dishonour  thy  rest : 
Thy  country's  kind  bosom  shall  close  over  thine, 

And  fondly  she  '11  fold  her  green  robe  round  thy  breast ! 
There,  honoured  and  loved,  let  thy  relics  be  laid, 

A  resting-place  meet  for  the  great  and  the  free ; 
And  a  shrine  shall  the  heart  of  each  freeman  be  made, 

Where  memory  in  secret  shall  sorrow  for  thee. 


JULIA  HOWE. 


Mrs.  Howe  is  the  daughter  of  the  late  Samuel  Ward,  the  distinguished 
banker  of  New  York.  In  1843  she  was  married  to  Dr.  S.  G.  Hov/e,  one 
of  the  most  eminent  and  philanthropic  minds  of  the  age.  Since  that  time, 
she  has  continued  (with  the  exception  of  a  year  spent  in  Europe)  to 
reside  in  Boston.  Possessing  evei'y  natural  grace  of  intellect,  cultivated  in 
the  highest  degree,  she  has  elicited  admiration  wherever  she  has  appeared, 
either  in  print  or  in  person.  Her  productions  are  chaste  and  elegant,  and 
her  name  will  be  long  cherished  by  all  who  love  the  true  and  beautiful,  for 
she  has  embalmed  it  in  the  pure  amber  of  Poesy. 

WHAT  I  SAID  TO  THE  DYING  ROSE,  AND  WHAT 
IT  SAID  TO  ME. 

(These  lines  were  sent  to  a  friend  in  deep  affliction.) 

Sweet  Rose,  it  is  thy  dying  day ! 
Ere  nightfall  thou  must  pass  away, 

And  my  soul  for  thee  grieves ; 
For  I  have  found  a  record  dear, 
Traced  by  the  hand  I  love  and  fear 

Upon  thy  silken  leaves. 

Thou  hast  so  smiled  upon  my  heart, 
That  I  can  scarcely  from  thee  part 

Without  a  tear  of  sorrow. 
For  I  shall  come  thy  cup  to  kiss. 
And  my  beloved  companion  miss, 

For  ever  gone,  to-morrow. 


JULIA  HOWE. 


S83 


It  seemed  to  me  thy  lingering 
Made  Autumn  lovelier  than  Spring, 

With  a  sad  loveliness ; 
On  thy  pale  leaves  a  golden  glow 
Spake  of  the  sunlight  on  the  snow, 

Of  joy  in  bitterness. 

Thy  little  hour  of  beauty 's  o'er. 
And  I,  like  thee,  shall  be  no  more 

Ere  many  days  are  numbered ; 
But  I  shall  rise  to  regions  blest. 
And  so  will  all  who  on  the  breast 

Of  holy  faith  have  slumbered. 

Is  there  another  life  for  thee, 
That  thou  so  uncomplainingly 

Dost  languish  unto  death? 
Oh  tell  me,  does  an  unseen  hand 
Bear  to  the  bright  and  better  land 

Thy  tender  parting  breath  ? 

Thy  fragrance  dropped  from  angels'  wings, 
Thy  beauty  from  the  same  source  springs 

With  all  I  love  and  cherish ; 
The  hills,  the  plains,  the  stars,  the  sun, 
The  fair  forms  I  have  looked  upon. 

That  change,  but  cannot  perish. 

49 


384 


JULIA  HOWE. 


Dost  thou  not  eloquently  look 
A  promise  from  the  mighty  book 

Writ  in  immensity? 
Thought  of  the  universal  soul. 
Thyself  a  fragment,  and  a  whole, 

A  truth,  a  mystery  ? 

The  dead  shall  rise,  the  heavens  shall  burn, 
The  earth  be  melted,  yet  return 

A  new  and  glorious  birth ; 
Oh  say  that  thou  wilt  live  again, 
And  I,  methinks,  with  less  of  pain, 

Shall  see  thee  fall  to  earth. 

Speak,  from  thy  softly  rounded  bell, 
Whereon,  as  though  a  pearly  shell, 

The  morning  light  still  gloweth ; 
And  as  the  fair  leaves  dropped  away, 
Methought  that  each  did  seem  to  say 

*  I  cannot  tell,  God  knoweth.' 

Methinks  that  there  should  be  no  death, 
For  all  that  liveth  hath  the  breath 

Of  One  who  cannot  die ; 
The  robes  of  glory  He  hath  worn 
Are  never  thrown  aside  in  scorn, 

But  lovingly  laid  by. 


JULIA  HOWE. 


385 


All  that  the  future  darkly  holds, 
All  the  sepulchral  past  unfolds, 

All  that  this  hour  must  be ; 
The  soul  that  seeks  in  Him  its  sun, 
The  flower  whose  little  race  is  run, 
All  things  that  He  hath  made  are  one 

With  His  eternity. 

Methinks  we  will  not  mourn  again. 
Nor  murmur,  while  life's  varied  chain 

Our  Father's  glory  showeth ; 
The  blessedness  that  we  have  known, 
The  tears  that  we  have  wept  alone, 
Gather  like  incense  round  the  throne 

Of  Him  who  all  things  knoweth. 

And  thou,  my  widowed  bridal  Rose,  , 
Whose  pallid  leaves  the  wound  disclose 

From  which  thy  heart's  blood  floweth ; 
Thou  askest  why  the  grave  doth  hide 
The  form  that  was  thy  life,  thy  pride. 
Why  thou  should'st  be  so  sorely  tried  : 

I  cannot  tell,  God  knoweth. 


386 


JULIA  HOWE. 


MORTAL  AND  IMMORTAL. 

Oh  !  life  is  strange,  and  full  of  change 

But  it  brings  me  little  sorrow, 
For  I  came  to  the  world  but  yesterday. 

And  I  shall  go  hence  to-morrow. 

The  wind  is  drear,  the  leaves  are  sear, 

Full  dimly  shows  the  sun, 
The  skies  are  bright,  the  earth  is  light, 

To  me 't  is  almost  one. 

The  sunny  rill,  the  wave  dark  and  chill, 

Across  my  breast  may  roll ; 
The  saddest  sigh,  the  merriest  cry 

Make  music  in  my  soul. 

A  few  short  years  of  smiles  and  tears, 

Of  suffering,  not  in  vain, 
And  the  weary  smart  of  a  wounded  heart 

I  never  shall  know  again 

I 've  wept  for  the  bride  at  her  husband's  side, 
I 've  smiled  on  the  loved  one's  bier. 

For  a  mystery  was  shown  to  me, 
A  thing  of  hope  and  fear. 


JULIA  HOWE. 


Who  SOWS  in  tears  his  early  years 

May  bind  the  golden  sheaves ; 
Who  scatters  flowers  in  summer  bowers 

Shall  reap  but  their  withered  leaves. 

A  wayward  child,  on  whom  hath  smiled 

The  light  of  heavenly  love ; 
A  pilgrim  with  a  vision  dim 

Of  something  far  above  ; 

I  live  for  all  who  on  me  call, 

And  yet  I  live  for  one ; 
My  song  must  be  sweet  to  all  I  meet. 

And  yet  I  sing  to  none. 

A  quiet  tone,  that  maketh  known 

A  spirit  passing  by, 
A  breath  of  prayer  on  the  midnight  air, 

And  I  am  gone  for  aye. 

Gone  to  the  rest  of  the  ever-blest. 

To  the  new  Jerusalem, 
Where  the  children  of  light  do  walk  in  white, 

And  the  Saviour  leadeth  them. 

For  ever  gone,  and  none  to  mourn, 
And  who  for  me  would  sorrow  ? 

I  came  to  toil  in  a  desert  soil, 

And  my  task  will  be  done  to-morrow. 


ANNE  M.  F.  ANNAN. 


This  lady  is  a  native  of  Pennsylvania,  and  spent  her  childhood  and 
early  youth  in  the  beautiful  region  of  the  Susquehanna,  her  father,  Mr. 
Buchanan,  being  engaged  in  the  iron  manufacture  in  a  secluded  district  of 
the  mountains.  From  having  no  companionship  suited  to  her  years  or 
taste,  she  was  thrown  upon  her  own  resources  for  amusement,  and  this 
was  found  in  boolvs  and  literary  composition.  Having  a  natural  facility 
for  verse,  she  early  began  to  give  her  fancies  metrical  expression,  and  at 
the  age  of  fifteen  contributed,  anonymously,  to  the  periodicals  of  the  day. 
A  poem  which  we  insert,  "  The  Burial  in  the  Country,"  was  the  first  ever 
published  with  her  name,  a  premium  having  been  awarded  for  it  by  a 
Philadelphia  journal.  Subsequently  she  has  furnished  frequent  contribu- 
tions to  the  magazines,  both  in  verse  and  prose.  She  was  married  in 
1840  to  Professor  Annan,  of  Baltimore;  and  in  1846,  her  husband  being 
appointed  to  a  chair  in  the  medical  department  of  Transylvania  University, 
she  found  a  new  home  in  Lexington,  Kentucky,  one  of  the  most  beautiful 
cities  of  the  South-West. 

BURIAL  IN  THE  COUNTRY. 

The  sunlight  through  the  window's  vines 

Came  in  upon  the  dead — 
A  fair,  young  child  —  and  touched  with  gold 

The  ringlets  of  its  head. 
A  smile  so  bright  was  round  its  lips, 

And  on  its  dimpled  cheek, 
So  life-like  through  the  lashes  long 

Shone  out  an  azure  streak, 


ANNE  M.  F.  ANNAN. 

That  in  a  childish  playfulness 
Its  eyes  were  closed,  it  seemed, 

To  peep  upon  the  glorious  thing 
Whence  the  eifulgence  streamed. 

It  lay  where  it  had  sunk  to  rest, 

Upon  a  snow-white  bed, 
On  which  the  bright  and  balmy  air 

Its  coolness  oft  had  shed ; 
And,  full  in  sight,  all  pictured  o'er 

With  chequered  greens  of  June, 
Majestic  hills  arose,  and  streams 

Sang  their  sweet,  changeless  tune ; 
And  bees,  from  out  the  garden  hive, 

And  birds  were  winging  by ; — 
With  its  calm  cheerfulness,  it  was 

A  lovely  place  to  die. 

No  studied  words  of  sympathy 

Were  coldly  whispered  round ; 
The  silence  of  the  humble  throng 

Told  more  than  measured  sound. 
A  step  anon  the  couch  would  seek, 

A  tear  the  shroud  would  wet. 
And  mothers  clasped  their  babes  with  thanks 

That  God  had  spared  them  yet ; 
And  children  touched  the  cold,  white  brow. 

And  then  in  awe  stood  by. 
Their  new-learnt  lesson  thinking  o'er, 

Of  angels  in  the  sky. 


ANNE  M.  F.  ANNAN. 

An  aged  man,  with  meek,  low  voice, 

And  simple  words  and  few, 
Arose,  and  from  the  Book  of  God 

Its  soothing  solace  drew  : 
He  said  that  types  to  teach  our  doom 

Were  still  our  eyes  before ; 
He  pointed  to  the  morning-flower, 

O'ershadowing  the  door, 
And  said  its  bloom,  so  bright  and  brief, 

A  child's  existence  shared;  — 
Then  who  could  look  on  it,  nor  be 

For  early  death  prepared  ? 

And  sobs  gushed  forth,  as,  from  the  home 

Whence  had  for  ever  gone 
The  echoes  of  a  loved  young  voice, 

The  solemn  train  passed  on. 
Hailed  by  that  holy  comforter. 

The  fresh,  soft  morning  air. 
They  wound  along  the  woodland  path 

Where  birds  and  blossoms  were  : 
The  fragrance  and  the  melody 

So  breathed  of  love  and  peace. 
That  soon  the  hearts  most  anguished  felt 

Their  throbs  impatient  cease. 

And  then  within  the  churchyard  gate 

The  lowly  bier  they  stood, 
Thick  strown  with  pallid  locust  flowers. 

The  tribute  of  the  wood ; 


ANNE  M.  F.  ANNAN. 


And  hands  that  oft  had  fondled  it, 

While  flowed  its  winning  mirth, 
Let.  gently  down  the  coffined  form 

Into  the  silent  earth. 
So  carefully  the  sod  they  laid, 

That,  ere  they  ceased,  had  come 
The  bees  to  the  unwithered  thyme 

And  filled  it  with  their  hum. 

'T  would  be  a  chilling  thought  to  one 

Whose  love  is  Nature's  bloom. 
Whose  oracles  are  every  leaf, 

That  in  a  dark,  cold  room 
He  must  be  laid  to  die,  where  ne'er 

The  stir  of  forest  trees. 
Nor  murmurs  of  unfettered  streams 

Send  their  deep  homilies  ; 
That  when  the  Almighty's  summoner 

His  heart  was  stilled  to  hear, 
The  ribald  shouts  of  reckless  crowds 

Should  rise  upon  his  ear. 

'T  would  be  a  chilling  thought,  that  when 

He  sank  to  silent  clay. 
The  ones  he  loved,  must  chain  their  sighs 

Among  the  crowded  way ; 
And  though  with  anthems,  thrilling  sad, 

And  sombre  palls  and  plumes. 
And  knells  to  strike  into  the  soul. 

They  bore  him  'midst  the  tombs, 


392 


ANNE  M.  F.  ANNAN. 


That  careless  tongues  their  tears  should  count, 

And  strangers  cold  and  rude 
Cast  down  the  turf,  and  sneering  bid 

The  worm  to  take  its  food. 

Oh,  that  his  hour  of  doom  might  come 

Far  from  the  city's  din, 
Where  things  of  beauty,  ever  round 

His  heart's  sweet  guides  had  been  ! 
Where  Friendship,  at  its  last  sad  rites. 

Unchecked  might  rest  and  weep, 
And  Memory,  o'er  his  ashes,  oft. 

Unseen  a  vigil  keep ; 
Where  solitude  and  silence  might 

E'en  worldlings  unenslave, 
To  pause,  and  reverently  glean 

A  moral  from  his  grave ! 


AN  INFANT'S  SPIRIT, 

An  infant's  soul — the  sweetest  thing  of  earth, 
To  which  endowments  beautiful  are  given, 

As  might  befit  a  more  than  mortal  birth, — 

What  shall  it  be,  when,  'midst  its  winning  mirth, 
And  love,  and  trustfulness,  't  is  borne  to  heaven  ? 

Will  it  grow  into  might  above  the  skies  ?  — 
A  spirit  of  high  wisdom,  glory,  power, — 
A  cherub  guard  of  the  Eternal  Tower, 


ANNE  M.  F.  ANNAN. 


393 


With  knowledge  filled  of  its  vast  mysteries  ? 
Or  will  perpetual  childhood  be  its  dower  ?  — 

To  sport  for  ever,  a  bright,  joyous  thing. 
Amid  the  wonders  of  the  shining  thrones, 
Yielding  its  praise  in  glad,  but  feeble  tones, 

A  tender  dove  beneath  the  Almighty's  wing  ? 


MARION  WARD. 


I  LOVE  TO  LOVE. 

"  I  LOVE  to  love"  said  a  darling  pet, 

Whose  soul  looked  out  through  her  eyes  of  jet, 

And  she  nestled  down  like  a  fondled  dove 

And  lisped,  " Dear  Mamma,  how  I  love  to  love!" 

"  I  love  to  love,"  said  a  maiden  bright. 
And  her  words  gushed  forth  like  a  stream  of  light, 
And  thrilled  to  the  heart  of  a  suppliant  there, 
With  a  ripple,  soft  as  angel's  prayer. 

" I  love  to  love"  said  a  new-made  bride, 
As  she  gazed  on  the  loved  one  by  her  side, 
And  she  clung  to  his  arm  in  the  star-lit  grove, 
And  breathed  on  his  lips,  "How  I  love  to  love!" 

"  I  love  to  love"  said  a  mother  blest, 

As  her  first-born  lay  like  a  rose  on  her  breast, 

And  she  thought  as  she  smoothed  down  its  silken  hair. 

That  nothing  on  earth  covM  be  half  so  fair. 

And  thus,  as  we  sail  o'er  the  ocean  of  life. 

Love  pours  out  the  oil  on  the  desert  of  strife, 

And  swiftly  our  bark  nears  the  haven  above, 

While  we 've  something  to  hope  for,  and  something  to  love 


SUSAN  PINDAR. 


This  lady  was  born  at  Pindar's  Vale,  a  beautiful  estate  on  the  North 
River,  adjoining  Wolfert's  Roost,  the  present  abode  of  Washington  Irving. 
At  an  early  age  she  was  left  an  orphan,  and  the  subsequent  death  of  two 
brothers,  has  left  her  almost  alone  in  the  world.  The  readers  of  the 
Knickerbocker  Magazine  will  not  fail  to  recognise  with  pleasure  in  this 
volume,  the  name  which  they  have  heretofore  regarded  as  a  nom  de  plume. 


THE  SPIRIT  MOTHER. 

Art  thou  near  me,  spirit  mother,  when  in  the  twilight 
hour 

A  holy  hush  pervades  my  heart,  with  a  mysterious  power ; 
While  eyes  of  dreamy  tenderness  are  gazing  into  mine, 
And  stir  the  fountains  of  my  soul, — sweet  mother,  are  they 
thine  ? 

Is  thine  the  blessed  influence  that  o'er  my  spirit  flings 
A  sense  of  rest,  as  though 't  were  wrapped  within  an  angel's 
wings ; — 

A  deep,  abiding  trustfulness,  that  seems  an  earnest  given 
Of  future  happiness  and  peace  to  those  who  dwell  in 
Heaven  ? 


396 


SUSAN  PINDAR. 


And  ofttimes,  when  my  footsteps  stray  in  error's  shining 
track. 

There  comes  a  soft,  restraining  voice,  that  seems  to  call  me 
back : 

I  hear  it  not  with  outward  ears,  but  with  a  power  divine 
Its  whisper  thrills  my  inmost  heart; — sweet  mother,  is  it 
thine  ? 

It  well  may  be, —  for  know  we  not  that  beings  all  unseen 
Are  ever  hovering  o'er  our  paths,  the  earth  and  sky  between  ? 
They  are  with  us  in  our  daily  walks,  and  tireless  vigils  keep, 
To  weave  those  happy  fantasies  that  bless  our  hours  of  sleep. 

Oh,  could  we  feel  that  spirit  eyes  for  ever  on  us  gaze, 
And  mark  each  idle  thought  that  threads  the  heart's  bewil- 
dering maze, 

Would  we  not  guard  each  careless  act,  all  sinful  feelings 
quell, 

Lest  we  should  grieve  those  cherished  ones  we  loved  on  earth 
so  well  ? 

Sweet  spirit  mother,  bless  thy  child,  and  with  a  holy  love. 
Inspire  my  feeble  energies,  and  lift  my  soul  above ! 
And  when  the  long-imprisoned  soul  these  earthly  bonds  have 
riven. 

Be  thine  the  wing  to  bear  it  up,  and  waft  it  on  to  Heaven ! 


SUSAN  PINDAR. 


397 


THE  SHADED  FLOWER. 

From  a  dark  cloud's  breast  a  rain-drop  fell, 

In  a  grateful  summer  shower, 
Through  the  tangled  leaves  of  a  vine-clad  dell, 
Till  it  rested  at  last  in  the  opening  bell 

Of  a  shaded  little  flower. 

Then  tne  sun  looked  forth,  and  his  gladdening  beam 

Soon  drank  the  shower-dew  up, 
He  smiled  on  the  mountain,  the  valley,  and  stream, 
But  he  did  not  kiss  with  his  warm,  bright  gleam. 

The  drop  in  the  blossom's  cup. 

"How  sad  is  my  fate !" — the  floweret  sighed, 

'Neath  the  glittering  weight  oppressed, — 
"My  sisters  smile  in  their  graceful  pride. 
While  I  am  condemned  this  load  to  hide 
Within  my  trembling  breast !" 

Then  she  bowed  her  head  on  her  fragile  stem, 
And  slept  through  the  long,  still  night ; 

But  when  she  awoke,  the  prisoned  gem 

Shone  like  a  glorious  diadem. 

As  it  flashed  in  the  morning  light. 

The  scorching  sun  at  the  noontide  hour 
Looked  down  on  the  blossoms  gay ; 


SUSAN  PINDAR. 


They  drooped,  and  paled,  'neath  his  withering  power. 
All  save  the  little  shaded  flower. 
And  she  quailed  not  before  his  ray. 

Then  to  glisten  afar  in  the  rainbow's  dye, 

He  bade  the  drop  depart ; 
But  the  flower  looked  up  with  a  trusting  eye  — 
Though  the  dew  no  more  in  her  breast  might  lie, 

It  had  freshened  the  life  at  her  heart. 

And  is  it  not  thus  in  adversity's  hour, 

When  the  soul  is  with  grief  oppressed. 
Our  spirits  bow  'neath  Misfortune's  power. 
And  we  nurse,  like  the  little  shaded  flower, 
A  sorrow  in  the  breast  ? 

And  may  we  not  hope  when  our  grief  is  fled, 

That  a  stronger  faith  will  be  given, 
And  the  tears  which  our  burdened  hearts  have  shed. 
Shall  form  when  the  night  of  gloom  is  sped, 

A  rainbow  of  hope  in  Heaven  ? 


ELIZA  L.  SPROAT. 


Miss  Sproat  has  been  but  a  short  time  befoi'e  the  public  as  an  author. 
She  has  published  nothing  as  yet  but  short  lyrical  pieces,  which  have 
appeared  as  contributions  to  the  Annuals  and  Magazines.  These  pieces, 
however,  indicate  poetical  talent  of  a  high  order.  She  resides  in  Phila- 
delphia. 

THE  PRISONER'S  CHILD. 

The  dull  chill  prison  building, 

Oh,  what  a  gloomy  sight ! 
It  wears  in  boldest  morning 

The  coward  scowl  of  night. 
The  warm  fresh  light  approaches, 

And  shuddering  turns  away : 
Within  its  shadow  looming  foul 

No  joysome  thing  will  stay. 
Yet  there's  a  light  within  my  cell, 

A  lovely  light  its  walls  enclose ; 
My  happy  child — my  daughter  pure — 

My  wild,  wild  rose. 


51 


The  prison  sounds  are  dreary 
To  one  who  hears  them  long; 


ELIZA  L.  SPROAT. 

The  murderer  talking  to  himself — 

The  drunkard's  crazy  song. 
My  prison-door  grates  harshly, 

It  bodes  the  jailor's  scowl ; 
The  jailor's  dog  sleeps  all  the  day, 

To  wake  at  night  and  howl. 
Yet  there  is  music  in  my  cell. 

And  joy's  own  voice  its  walls  enclose; 
My  heaven-bird — my  gladsome  girl — 

My  wild,  wild  rose. 

Her  mellow  golden  accents 

O'erflow  the  air  around, 
As  if  the  joyous  sunshine 

Resolved  itself  to  sound. 
She  carols  clear  at  morning. 

And  prattles  sweet  at  noon; 
She  sings  to  rest  the  weary  sun, 

And  ringeth  up  the  moon. 
And  when  in  sleep  she  visits  home, 

(My  daughter  knows  the  angels  well,) 
She  '11  fearless  rouse  the  awful  night, 

Her  happy  dreams  to  tell. 

Oh,  some  have  many  treasures. 

But  other  I  have  none; 
The  dear  Creator  gave  me 

My  blessings  all  in  one. 
The  wealth  of  many  jewels 

Is  garnered  in  her  eyes; 


ELIZA  L.  SPROAT. 


The  worth  of  many  loving  hearts 

Within  her  bosom  lies. 
She 's  more  to  me  than  daily  bread, 

And  more  to  me  than  night's  repose : 
My  staff,  my  flower,  my  praise,  my  prayer 

My  wild,  wild  rose. 


MRS.  M.  T.  W.  CHANDLER. 


This  lady,  whose  maiden  name  was  Hieskell,  is  a  native  of  Philadelphia, 
where  she  still  resides. 

TO  MY  BROTHER. 

"The  love  where  Death  hath  set  his  seal, 
Nor  age  can.  chill,  nor  rival  steal, 

Nor  falsehood  disavow." — Byron. 

Welcome,  oh !  brother,  to  our  household  meeting, 

Welcome  again  from  o'er  the  distant  sea, 
Long  have  we  looked  for  thy  familiar  greeting, 

Long  have  we  yearned  to  gaze  once  more  on  thee. 
Daily  and  nightly  for  thy  safe  returning 

Have  prayers  ascended  from  our  watchful  hearts. 
When,  as  before  a  shrine,  for  ever  burning. 

The  lamp  of  love  its  holy  light  imparts. 

How  have  we  missed  thee  in  our  joy  and  sorrow  ! 

How  have  we  daily  marked  thy  vacant  place ! 
How  have  we  fondly  sighed  for  the  fair  morrow, 

That  should  restore  to  us  thine  own  dear  face ! 
The  chain  of  love  hath  lost  a  link  without  thee — 

And  all  too  slowly  runs  the  golden  sand. 
Till  that  sweet  time,  when,  circled  round  about  thee, 

Safe  in  our  midst,  we  may  behold  thee  stand. 


MRS.  M.  T.  W.  CHANDLER. 


403 


Yet  with  our  welcome  mingle  strains  of  sadness 

Unheard  before  amidst  our  household  mirth ; 
Hushed  are  the  wonted  tones  of  joy  and  gladness, 

For  ever  quenched  the  light  upon  our  hearth. 
The  star  is  hidden  from  our  earnest  gazing, 

Silent  the  music  in  the  troubled  air. 
Yet  do  we  surely  know,  to  Heaven  upraising 

Our  eyes  all  dim  with  tears,  that  she  is  there. 

The  Father  hath  received  her  into  glory — 

The  lamb  hath  refuge  found  within  the  fold — 
And  though  her  life  be  as  an  untold  story. 

Her  death  is  writ  in  characters  of  gold. 
Oh !  little  darling,  with  the  tears  fast  raining, 

And  the  sick  heart  a  mother  only  knows — 
I  think  of  thy  most  patient  uncomplaining. 

Submissive  ever,  till  thy  sweet  life's  close ; 

Of  all  the  wealth  of  thy  young  heart's  devotion — 

Of  the  last  mortal  sickness,  faint  unrest — 
And,  oh !  dread  thought — the  little  hand's  last  motion, 

Which  even  in  death  would  clasp  me  to  thy  breast ! 
Each  censure  passed  in  chastening  correction 

Upon  thy  childish  faults,  so  few  and  light — 
Each  look,  each  hasty  word,  with  vain  reflection, 

Comes  pressing  hard  upon  my  heart  to-night. 

Once  more,  my  solitary  vigil  keeping, 
I  watch  beside  thee  in  that  silent  room — 


404 


MRS.  M.  T.  W.  CHANDLER. 


Counting  thy  pulse,  as  the  hot  blood  runs  leaping 
Through  those  young  veins,  soon  quiet  in  the  tomb. 

Once  more  I  mark  the  dimpled  cheek's  deep  flushing. 
Seen  by  the  dim  night-lamp — once  more,  thy  cry 

Of  mortal  pain,  sends  with  a  mighty  rushing 
The  awful  thought  that  thou  must  surely  die. 

These  are  most  dread  and  fearful  recollections. 

Ne'er  to  be  blotted  out  till  life  hath  fled — 
Yet  are  there  holy,  comforting  reflections. 

Which  bloom  like  flowers  around  the  early  dead. 
Oh !  to  believe,  with  meekness  uncomplaining, 

In  the  dear  mercy  of  God's  loving  sway — 
That  our  sore  loss  is  her  eternal  gaining — 

That  darkness  leadeth  but  to  perfect  day. 

Ye  find  us  not  the  same  as  when  we  parted. 

Oh,  brother  mine — but  weary  and  way-worn — 
Ye  find  us  not  the  same  as  when  we  started 

On  the  dark  road  of  life,  in  youth's  fair  morn. 
Then,  with  a  holy  and  a  meek  confiding, 

And  a  fond  trust,  too  lovely  to  endure, 
We  dreamed  not  of  the  evil  here  abiding, 

For  to  the  heart  of  youth  all  things  are  pure. 

The  world  no  longer  wears  the  same  gay  seeming 
That  shone  around  it  once  in  life's  first  years. 

And  we  have  learned  to  mock  its  idle  dreamings. 
And  bathe  its  brightest  hopes  with  bitter  tears. 


MRS.  M.  T.  W.  CHANDLER. 


405 


Oh !  dreary  is  that  first  most  sad  awaking 
From  the  sweet  confidence  of  early  truth, 

To  find  hope's  rosy  glass,  in  fragments  breaking. 
Reflects  no  more  the  visions  of  our  youth ! 

Ah !  many  hearts  have  changed  since  we  two  parted, 

And  many  grown  apart,  as  time  hath  sped — 
Till  we  have  almost  deemed  that  the  true-hearted 

Abided  only  with  the  faithful  dead. 
And  some  we  trusted  with  a  fond  believing, 

Have  turned  and  stung  us  to  the  bosom's  core — 
And  life  hath  seemed  but  as  a  vain  deceiving, 

From  which  we  turn  aside — heart-sick  and  sore. 

Oh,  brother !  this  is  but  a  mournful  greeting. 

With  which  to  hail  the  wanderer's  return — 
My  lay,  responsive  to  my  heart's  sad  beating. 

Tells  but  of  Death — the  ashes  and  the  urn. 
Yet  must  we  wait  —  God's  own  good  time  abiding — 

And  faithful  labour  at  the  task  below. 
Till  His  just  hand,  the  good  and  ill  dividing. 

Shall  change  to  future  joy  our  present  woe. 


A.  D.  WOODBRIDGE. 


Miss  Woodbridge  is  a  native  of  Penobscot  county,  Maine.  She  resided 
during  her  youth  at  Stockbridge,  Massachusetts,  and  at  the  present  time  is 
a  resident  of  Brooklyn,  New  York. 


LIFE'S  HARVEST-FIELD. 

When  Morning  wakes  the  earth  from  sleep 

With  soft  and  kindling  ray, 
We  rise,  Life's  harvest-field  to  reap — 

'Tis  ripening  day  by  day. 

To  reap,  sometimes  with  joyful  heart — 

Anon  with  tearful  eye 
We  see  the  Spoiler  hath  a  part — 

We  reap  with  smile  and  sigh. 

Full  oft  the  tares  obstruct  our  way; 

Full  oft  we  feel  the  thorn; 
Our  hearts  grow  faint — we  weep,  we  pray— 

Then  hope  is  newly  born. 

Hope  that  at  last  we  all  shall  come — 
Though  rough  the  way  and  long — 

Back  to  our  Father's  house,  our  home, 
And  bring  our  sheaves  with  song. 


A.  D.  WOODBRIDGE. 


407 


LIFE'S  LIGHT  AND  SHADE. 

How  strangely,  in  this  life  of  ours, 

Light  falls  amid  the  darkest  shade ! 
How  soon  the  thorn  is  hid  by  flowers ! 

How  Hope,  sweet  spirit!  comes  to  aid 
The  heart  oppressed  by  care  and  pain, 

And  whispers,  "  all  shall  yet  be  well !" 
We  listen  to  her  magic  strain. 

And  yield  the  spirit  to  her  spell. 

How  oft  when  Love  is  like  a  bird 

Whose  weary  wing  sweeps  o'er  the  sea, 
While  not  an  answering  note  is  heard. 

She  spies  a  verdant  olive-tree ; 
And  soon  within  that  sheltering  bower. 

She  pours  her  very  soul  in  song. 
While  other  voices  wake  that  hour, 

Her  gentle  numbers  to  prolong. 

Thus,  when  this  heart  is  sad  and  lone, 

As  Memory  wakes  her  dirge-like  hymn. 
When  Hope  on  heavenward  wing  has  flown. 

And  earth  seems  wrapped  in  shadows  dim ; 
0 !  then  a  word,  a  glance,  a  smile, 

A  simple  flower,  or  childhood's  glee. 
Will  each  sad  thought,  each  care  beguile. 

Till  joy's  bright  fountain  gushes  free. 


A.  D.  woodbridge; 


To-day,  its  waters  softly  stirred, 

For  Peace  was  nigh,  that  gentle  dove! 
And  sweet  as  song  of  forest-bird, 

Came  the  low  voice  of  one  I  love; 
And  flowers,  "  the  smile  of  Heaven,"  were  mine. 

They  seemed  to  whisper  "Why  so  sad? 
Of  love  we  are  the  seal  and  sign, 

We  come  to  make  thy  spirit  glad." 

Thus  ever  in  the  steps  of  grief 

Are  seen  the  precious  seeds  of  joy. 
Each  "  fount  of  Marah"  hath  a  "  leaf," 

Whose  healing  balm  we  may  employ. 
Then  'midst  Life's  fitful  fleeting  day, 

Look  up !  the  sky  is  bright  above ; 
Kind  voices  cheer  thee  on  thy  way, 

Faint  spirit!  trust  the  God  of  Love! 


MRS.  MARGARET  M.  DAVIDSON. 


This  lady  is  the  mother  of  Lucretia  and  Margaret  M.  Davidson,  whom 
the  pens  of  Washington  Irving  and  Miss  Sedgwick  have  made  universally 
known.  As  the  parent  of  these  remarkable  but  fated  children,  Mrs.  David- 
son is  regarded  with  sympathy,  and  her  writings  with  interest. 


THE  LAMENT. 

And  thou  art  gone!  with  the  autumn  leaf 

Thy  fragile  form  hath  faded! 
And  all  our  warm  and  brilliant  hopes 

In  the  cold  dark  tomb  are  shaded! 


Fond  memory  to  my  withered  soul 
Presents  my  fair,  my  blighted  flower! 

Mournful  yet  sweet  her  image  comes 
As  in  that  last,  that  dying  hour, 

When,  clasped  within  my  feeble  arms, 

I  held  thee  to  my  bursting  heart, 
And  met  thy  tender,  earnest  gaze. 

Which  said — "Dear  mother!  we  must  part!" 


410 


MRS.  MARGARET  M.  DAVIDSON. 


The  chastened  ray  which  beamed  within 

Thine  intellectual  eye, 
Told  that  a  spirit  rested  there 

Whose  light  could  never  die ! 

What  high  and  holy  thoughts  then  gave 
Thy  broad  white  brow  an  angel's  light. 

As  o'er  the  darkness  of  the  grave 
It  beamed  with  inspiration  bright ! 

Thou  art  an  angel  now,  my  child ! 

Each  rich  and  glowing  thought. 
No  longer  bound  by  earthly  views. 

With  heavenly  themes  is  fraught! 

Thy  pure  and  lofty  spirit  now 

With  kindred  angels  bows — 
Thy  hallowed  lyre,  though  silent  here. 

Celestial  bands  arouse. 

And  there,  with  all  its  vast  desires. 

Half  formed  and  undefined, 
Bathing  in  streams  of  endless  light, 

Lives  thy  undying  mind. 


LUCHETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 


LucRETiA  was  born  in  Plattsburg,  New  York,  1808,  where  at  the  age 
of  seventeen  she  died.  Soon  after  her  death  her  writings  were  published, 
with  a  Memoir  by  Professor  S.  F.  B.  Morse ;  and  a  more  elaborate  biogra- 
phy has  since  been  written  by  Miss  C.  M.  Sedgwick. 


A  SONG. 

Life  is  but  a  troubled  ocean, 
Hope  a  meteor,  Love  a  flower 

Which  blossoms  in  the  morning  beam, 
And  withers  with  the  evening  hour. 


Ambition  is  a  dizzy  height. 

And  Glory  but  a  lightning  gleam; 

Fame  is  a  bubble,  dazzling  bright, 

Which  fairest  shines  in  fortune's  beam. 


When  clouds  and  darkness  veil  the  skies. 
And  Sorrow's  blast  blows  loud  and  chill 

Friendship  shall  like  a  rainbow  rise, 
And  softly  whisper — "Peace,  be  still." 


412 


LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 


ON  THE  BIRTH  OF  HER  SISTER  MARGARET. 

Sweet  babe,  I  cannot  hope  thou  wilt  be  freed 
From  woes,  to  all,  since  earliest  time,  decreed ; 
But  may'st  thou  be  with  resignation  blessed, 
To  bear  each  evil,  howsoe'er  distressed. 

May  Hope  her  anchor  lend  amid  the  storm, 
And  o'er  the  tempest  rear  her  angel  form ! 
May  sweet  Benevolence,  whose  words  are  peace. 
To  the  rude  whirlwinds  softly  whisper,  "  Cease !" 

And  may  Religion,  Heaven's  own  darling  child. 
Teach  thee  at  human  cares  and  griefs  to  smile ; 
Teach  thee  to  look  beyond  this  world  of  woe, 
To  Heaven's  high  fount,  whence  mercies  ever  flow. 

And  when  this  vale  of  tears  is  safely  passed — 
When  Death's  dark  curtain  shuts  the  scene  at  last — 
May  thy  freed  spirit  leave  this  earthly  sod, 
And  fly  to  seek  the  bosom  of  thy  God. 


MARGARET  MILLER  DAVIDSON. 


Margaret,  at  the  death  of  her  sister,  was  but  two  years  of  age.  The 
event  made  a  deep  impression  on  her  mind,  and  it  was  but  a  year  after  that 
she  exclaimed  to  her  mother,  "  Oh,  I  will  try  and  fill  her  place — teach  me 
to  be  like  her !"  Her  young  desire  was  more  than  gratified,  for  although 
she  did  not  live  to  attain  the  age  at  which  her  sister  died,  she  surpassed  her 
in  intelligence  and  literary  progress.  At  Saratoga,  in  1838,  she  died  of  a 
decline,  in  her  sixteenth  year.  A  volume  of  her  Remains  appeared  soon 
after,  edited  by  Mr.  Irving. 

TO  MY  SOLDIER  BROTHER  IN  THE  FAR  WEST. 

'T  IS  an  autumn  eve,  and  the  tints  of  day 

From  the  west  are  slowly  stealing, 
And  clouds  round  the  couch  of  the  setting  sun 

Are  gently  and  silently  wheeling. 
'T  is  the  scene  and  the  hour  for  the  soul  to  bathe 

In  its  own  deep  springs  of  feeling, 
And  my  thoughts  from  their  galling  bonds  set  free, 
Have  fled  to  the  "  far,  far  west"  to  thee ! 


And  perchance,  'mid  the  toils  of  thy  varied  life. 

Thou  also  art  pausing  awhile, 
To  behold  how  beautiful  all  things  look 

In  the  sunlight's  passing  smile ; 


MARGARET  MILLER  DAVIDSON. 

And  perchance  recollections  of  kindred  and  home 

Thy  cares  for  a  moment  beguile ; 
Thy  thoughts  have  been  mine  in  their  passage  to  thee, 
And  though  distant,  far  distant,  our  spirits  are  free ! 

I  know  thou  art  dreaming  of  home, 

And  the  dear  ones  sheltered  there ; 
Of  thy  mother,  pale  with  the  pain  of  years. 

And  thy  sire  with  his  silvered  hair ; 
And  with  them  blend  thoughts  of  thy  boyish  years, 

When  the  world  looked  all  so  fair. 
When  thy  cheek  flushed  high  at  the  voice  of  praise, 

And  thy  breast  was  unknown  to  care ; 
And  while  Memory  burns  her  torch  for  thee, 
I  know  that  these  thoughts  and  these  dreams  will  be ! 

But  when,  in  the  shade  of  the  autumn  wood, 

Thy  wandering  footsteps  stray. 
When  yellow  leaves  and  perishing  buds 

Are  scattered  in  thy  way ; 
When  all  around  thee  breathes  of  rest. 

And  sadness  and  decay — 
With  the  drooping  flower  and  the  falling  tree, 
Oh !  brother,  blend  thy  thoughts  of  me  ! 


ANNA  MARIA  WELLS. 

Mrs.  Wells,  formerly  Miss  Foster,  and  a  sister  of  the  distinguished 
poetess,  Mrs.  Frances  S.  Osgood,  is  a  native  of  Gloucester,  Massachusetts  ; 
but  has  resided  for  some  years  in  Boston.  A  volume  of  her  poems  appeared 
in  1831. 

THE  FUTURE. 

The  flowers,  the  many  flowers 
That  all  along  the  smiling  valley  grew, 

While  the  sun  lay  for  hours, 
Kissing  from  off  their  drooping  lids  the  dew ; 

They,  to  the  summer  air 
No  longer  prodigal,  their  sweet  breath  yield ; 

Vainly,  to  bind  her  hair. 
The  village  maiden  seeks  them  in  the  field. 

The  breeze,  the  gentle  breeze 
That  wandered  like  a  frolic  child  at  play, 

Loitering  'mid  blossomed  trees. 
Trailing  their  stolen  sweets  along  its  way, 

No  more  adventuresome. 
Its  whispered  love  is  to  the  violet  given ; 

The  boisterous  North  has  come. 
And  scared  the  sportive  trifler  back  to  Heaven. 

53 


ANNA  MARIA  WELLS. 


The  brook,  the  limpid  brook 
That  prattled  of  its  coolness  as  it  went 

Forth  from  its  rocky  nook, 
Leaping  with  joy  to  be  no  longer  pent, — 

Its  pleasant  song  is  hushed ;  — 
The  sun  no  more  looks  down  upon  its  play ;  — 

Freely,  where  once  it  gushed, 
The  mountain  torrent  drives  its  noisy  way. 

The  hours,  the  youthful  hours, 
When  in  the  cool  shade  we  were  wont  to  lie. 

Idling  with  fresh  culled  flowers. 
In  dreams  that  ne'er  could  know  reality;  — 

Fond  hours,  but  half  enjoyed. 
Like  the  sweet  summer  iDreeze  they  passed  away, 

And  dear  hopes  were  destroyed 
Like  buds  that  die  before  the  noon  of  day. 

Young  life,  young  turbulent  life. 
If,  like  the  stream,  it  take  a  wayward  course, 

'T  is  lost  'mid  folly's  strife, — 
O'erwhelmed  at  length  by  passion's  curbless  force. 

Nor  deem  youth's  buoyant  hours 
For  idle  hopes,  or  useless  musings  given : 

Who  dreams  away  his  powers, 
The  reckless  slumberer  shall  not  wake  to  Heaven. 


HELEN  IRVING. 


This  is  the  nom  de  plume  of  a  young  lady  who  resides  at  Lynn,  Mas- 
sachusetts. Being  yet  very  young,  she  has  published  but  few  pieces,  and 
those  have  chiefly  appeared  in  "  The  Home  Journal."  Her  poems  always 
possess  beauty,  and  contain  the  evidence  of  future  excellence. 

LOVE  AND  FAME. 

It  had  passed  in  all  its  grandeur,  that  sounding  summer 
shower ; 

Had  paid  its  pearly  tribute  to  each  fair  expectant  flower ; 
And,  while  a  thousand  sparklers  danced  lightly  on  the  spray, 
Close  folded  to  a  rose-bud's  heart,  one  tiny  rain-drop  lay. 

Throughout  each  fevered  petal  had  the  heaven-brought  fresh- 
ness gone, 

They  had  mingled  dew  and  fragrance  till  their  very  souls 
were  one ; 

The  bud  its  love  in  perfume  breathed,  till  its  pure  and  starry 
guest 

Grew  glowing  as  the  life-hue  of  the  lips  it  fondly  pressed. 

He  dreamed  away  the  hours  with  her,  his  gentle  bride  and  fair ; 
No  thought  filled  his  young  spirit,  but  to  dwell  for  ever  there  ; 
While,  ever  bending  wakefully,  the  bud  a  fond  watch  kept. 
For  fear  the  envious  zephyrs  might  steal  him  as  he  slept. 

But  forth  from  out  his  tent  of  clouds,  in  burnished  armour 
bright. 

The  conquering  sun  came,  proudly,  in  the  glory  of  his  might. 


418 


HELEN  IRVING. 


And,  like  some  grand  enchanter,  resumed  his  wand  of  power, 
And  shed  the  splendour  of  his  smile,  on  lake,  and  tree,  and 
flower. 

Then,  peering  through  the  shadowy  leaves,  the  rain-drop 

marked  on  high 
A  many-hued  triumphal  arch  span  all  the  eastern  sky — 
He  saw  his  glittering  comrades  all  wing  their  joyous  flight, 
And  stand  a  glorious  brotherhood,  to  form  that  bow  of  light ! 

Aspiring  thoughts  his  spirit  thrilled — "Oh,  let  me  join 
them,  love ! 

I  '11  set  thy  beauty's  impress  on  yon  bright  arch  above ; 
And,  as  the  world's  admiring  gaze  is  raised  to  Iris  fair, 
'T  will  deem  my  own  dear  rose-bud's  tint  the  loveliest 
colour  there !" 

The  gentle  bud  released  her  clasp — swift  as  a  thought  he  flew, 
And  brightly  'mid  that  glorious  band  he  soon  was  glowing, 
too — 

All  quivering  with  delight  to  feel,  that  she,  his  rose-bud  bride, 
Was  gazing  with  a  swelling  heart,  on  this,  his  hour  of  pride  ! 

But  the  shadowy  night  came  down  at  last — the  glittering 

bow  was  gone. 
One  little  hour  of  triumph,  was  all  the  drop  had  won  ; 
He  had  lost  the  warm  and  tender  glow,  his  distant  bud-love's 

hue, 

And  he  sought  her  sadly  sorrowing — a  tear-dimmed  star  of 
dew. 


MARY  L.  LAWSON. 


This  lady,  a  native  and  resident  of  Philadelphia,  is  the  daughter  of 
Alexander  Lawson,  the  distinguished  engraver.  She  has  written  princi- 
pally for  the  Magazines  and  Annuals. 

THE  NAME  DEEP  CARVED  ON  THIS  OLD  TREE. 

The  name  deep  carved  on  this  old  tree 

Recalls  life's  early  dreams  once  more. 
Old  memories  that  waken  grief, 

And  feelings  that  I  thought  were  o'er : 
For  now  my  weary  soul  is  changed, 

My  brow  is  marked  with  lines  of  care, 
Since  years  of  hardship,  strife  and  toil 

Have  left  dark  shades  of  sorrow  there. 

But,  as  I  gaze  upon  this  name. 

The  clouds  that  shroud  the  past  have  fled 
And  round  me  rise  the  friends  of  youth. 

The  fondly  loved  and  faithful  dead : 
And  one,  the  fairest  of  the  band. 

With  sunny  locks  and  azure  eyes. 
Seems  breathing  me  in  whispered  tones. 

To  join  her  in  her  home,  the  skies. 

Poor  girl!  how  little  did  I  think, 
When  wildly  weeping  o'er  thy  bier. 

That  long,  long  years  would  pass  away, 
And  I  should  still  be  dwelling  here ! 


MARY  L.  LAWSON. 


For  then  I  prayed  that  speedy  death 
Might  free  me  from  a  life  of  pain : 

The  wish  was  impious  and  unjust, 
And  God,  in  wisdom,  made  it  vain. 

But  when  I  think  upon  the  day 

I  carved  thy  name  upon  this  tree, 
I  cannot  deem  those  cherished  words 

Are  all  that  I  have  left  to  me. 
Would  that  I  ne'er  had  crossed  thy  path! 

Thy  days  had  then  gone  calm.ly  by. 
In  tranquil  happiness  and  joy, 

Unruffled  by  a  tear  or  sigh. 

But  fate  ordained  that  we  should  meet, 

And  gave  to  me  thy  constant  heart; 
We  wedded,  but  we  were  not  blest, 

Though  love  its  sunshine  could  impart; 
I  saw  thee  pine  'mid  needy  care, 

With  scanty  want  our  board  was  spread, 
For  mine  the  bitter  fate  of  those 

Who  strive  to  barter  thought  for  bread. 

What  fearful  anguish  moved  my  breast 
While  thou  wert  drooping  day  by  day. 

To  mark  the  pallor  of  thy  cheek, 
And  watch  thy  slow  but  sure  decay ! 

Yet  patient  was  thy  gentle  heart. 
That  ever  strove  my  path  to  cheer; 


MARY  L.  LAWSON. 

That  urged  me  on  to  brighter  hopes, 
And  breathed  new  comfort  in  mine  ear. 

But  faint  and  fainter  grew  the  voice, 

That  anxious  love  could  scarcely  hear, 
Yet  didst  thou  hide  the  hollow  cough, 

And  seem  to  smile  when  I  was  near; 
I  toiled  unceasing  day  and  night, 

I  would  have  given  life  for  gold ; 
But  only  gained  the  pittance  wrung 

From  out  the  heartless  and  the  cold. 

Death  came  at  length,  a  welcome  friend, 

To  set  thee  from  thy  sorrow  free ; 
Yet  didst  thou  bid  me  live  to  gain 

The  name  I  could  not  share  with  thee; 
And  I  have  lived  in  sadness  on. 

To  see  each  dream  of  joy  depart. 
And  feel  the  world  can  ne'er  bestow 

A  treasure  like  thy  tender  heart. 

And  yet  perchance,  in  after  years. 

The  burning  words  that  I  have  breathed 
May  gain  a  place  they  know  not  now. 

And  be  with  brighter  names  enwreathed; 
The  poet  oft  the  laurel  wins, 

In  time  above  his  tomb  to  wave ; 
And,  dearest,  it  may  proudly  rest 

In  triumph  o'er  thy  lowly  grave. 


MRS.  M.  ST.  LEON  LOUD. 

Mrs,  Loud,  whose  maiden  name  was  Barstow,  is  a  native  of  Bradford 
county,  Pennsylvania.  Slie  has  since  her  marriage  resided  in  Philadelphia. 

THE  HINDOO  MOTHER. 

"Weepest  thou,  pale  Hindoo  mother, 

By  the  Ganges  bending  low  ? 
Canst  thou  not  thy  feelings  smother?  — 

Brightly  doth  the  river  flow, 
Where  thy  children  calmly  sleep, 
Buried  in  its  waters  deep ; 
And  above,  the  smiling  skies 
Look  upon  thy  sacrifice." 

"  Tell  me  not  of  bright  waves  flowing, 
They  but  mock  my  bosom's  care; 

Tell  me  not  of  sunlight  glowing — 
All  within  is  dark  despair ; 

For  I've  heard  of  One  whose  eye 

Frowns  upon  me  from  the  sky. 

Where  can  help  be  found  for  me  — 

Christian !  whither  shall  I  flee  ?" 

"  To  the  cross !  behold,  the  Saviour 
Dies  to  save  thee,  calls  thee  home ! 

Listen  to  these  words  of  favour — 
'  Come,  ye  heavy-laden,  come  !' 


MRS.  M.  ST.  LEON  LOUD. 


Hindoo  mother,  weep  no  more ! 
Lo !  to  this  benighted  shore 
Jesus'  heralds  gladly  fly, 
To  proclaim  salvation  nigh." 

"To  your  God  my  heart  is  given. 
He  hath  heard  the  Hindoo's  prayer; 

But  my  babes !  in  that  bright  heaven, 
Christian,  shall  I  meet  them  there  ?" 

"  God's  deep  purpose  w^ho  can  know — 

Faith  and  hope  must  soothe  thy  woe. 

For  upon  that  blissful  shore 

Mercy  reigns  for  evermore." 


THE  AGED. 

I  LOVE  the  aged ;  every  silver  hair 

On  their  time-honoured  brows  speaks  to  my  heart 
In  language  of  the  past ;  each  furrow  there 

In  all  my  best  affections  claims  a  part : 
Next  to  our  God  and  Scriptures'  holy  page. 
Is  deepest  reverence  due  to  virtuous  age. 

The  aged  Christian  stands  upon  the  shore 
Of  time,  a  storehouse  of  experience, 

Filled  with  the  treasures  of  rich  heavenly  lore : 
I  love  to  sit  and  hear  him  draw  from  thence 

54 


MRS.  M.  ST.  LEON  LOUD. 


Sweet  recollections  of  his  journey  past — 
A  journey  crowned  with  blessings  to  the  last 

Lovely  is  age,  where,  like  a  shock  of  corn 
Full  ripe  and  ready  for  the  reaper's  hand. 

Which  garners  for  the  resurrection  morn 
The  bodies  of  the  just,  in  hope  they  stand ; 

And  dead  must  be  the  heart,  the  bosom  cold. 

That  warms  not  with  affection  for  the  old. 


CORNELIA  DA  PONTE. 


THE  MIDSHIPMAN'S  FAREWELL. 

When  slumber  seals  those  heavenly  eyes, 

And  dreams  of  rapture  round  thee  glow, 
When  angels  watch — for  angels  love 

To  guard  the  pure  from  ills  below — 
Mine  in  that  hour  must  keep  the  watch 

Alone  upon  the  midnight  sea, 
As  winds  and  waves  with  hated  speed 

Bear  me  away  from  home  and  thee. 

Yes,  mine  shall  fix  their  silent  gaze, 

Nor  shrink  if  danger  hover  near ; 
This  hand  that  trembles  now  in  thine, 

Must  grasp  the  sword  without  a  fear ; 
And  for  the  music  of  thy  voice, 

The  stormy  wave,  with  shouts  of  men ; 
For  whispers  soft,  words  stern  and  cold 

Must  be  the  sound  that  hails  me  then. 

The  hour  has  come,  fresh  blows  the  gale, 
Our  ship  moves  down  yon  tide  afar ; 

Away,  away  beyond  that  tide 
Thy  image  follows  as  a  star. 


426 


CORNELIA  DA  PONTE. 


Farewell  to  thee,  farewell  to  all, 

My  native  land  and  skies  above ; 
0  who  will  greet  the  wanderer  now 

With  soothing  words  or  smiles  of  love  ? 

Remember  me,  't  is  all  I  ask, 

When  others  gaze,  when  others  sigh, 
When  others  plead  with  bending  knee, 

And  drink  the  beauty  of  thine  eye ; 
Remember  then,  for  e'en  in  dreams. 

Though  bright  they  come,  this  heart  shall  weep. 
My  thirsting  spirit  vainly  seek 

Thy  image  on  the  lonely  deep. 


ANNA  CORA  MOWATT. 


Mrs.  Mow  ATT  is  the  daughter  of  Mr.  Samuel  Gouverneur  Ogden,  of 
New  Jersey,  and  was  born  at  Bordeaux,  while  her  parents  were  on  a  visit 
to  France,  At  the  age  of  fifteen  she  was  married.  At  seventeen  she 
began  her  literary  career  by  publishing  a  poetical  romance,  which  was 
followed  in  1841  by  "  Gulzara,  a  Tragedy."  In  1842-3,  she  gave  "  elo- 
cutionary readings"  in  New  York  and  Boston,  which  were  well  attended 
and  much  praised.  Encouraged  by  the  enthusiastic  applause  of  the  public 
she  ventured  upon  the  stage,  where  she  has  been  favourably  received,  not 
only  in  our  own  country,  but  abroad.  She  is  the  author  of  "  Fashion,  a 
Comedy,"  which  has  been  successfully  produced  at  the  various  theatres  of 
our  principal  cities. 

LOVE. 

Thou  conqueror's  conqueror,  mighty  Love  !  to  thee 

Their  crowns,  their  laurels,  kings  and  heroes  yield ! 
Lo !  at  thy  shrine  great  Antony  bows  the  knee, 

Disdains  his  victor  wreath,  and  flies  the  field ! 
From  woman's  lips  Alcides  lists  thy  tone, 

And  grasps  the  inglorious  distaff  for  his  sword ! 
An  eastern  sceptre  at  thy  feet  is  thrown, 

A  nation's  worshipped  idol  owns  thee  lord !  * 

*  The  Emperor  Jehangheer  was  so  devotedly  attached  to  his  favourite 
Sultana,  Noorjchan,  that  at  her  solicitation  he  granted  her  absolute  power 
over  his  empire  for  a  day. 


428 


ANNA  CORA  MOWATT. 


And  well  fair  Noorjehan  his  throne  became^ 
When  erst  she  ruled  his  empire  in  thy  name ! 

The  sorcerer,  Jarchas,  could  to  age  restore 

Youth's  faded  bloom,  or  childhood's  vanished  glee ; 
Magician,  Love!  canst  thou  not  yet  do  more? 

Is  not  the  faithful  heart  kept  young  by  thee  ? 
But  ne'er  that  traitor  bosom  formed  to  stray, 

Those  perjured  lips  which  twice  thy  vows  have  breathed, 
Can  know  the  raptures  of  thy  magic  sway. 

Or  find  the  balsam  in  thy  garland  wreathed ; 
Fancy,  or  Folly,  may  his  breast  have  moved. 
But  he  who  wanders,  never  truly  loved. 


TIME. 

Nay,  rail  not  at  Time,  though  a  Tyrant  he  be, 
And  say  not  he  cometh,  colossal  in  might, 
Our  beauty  to  ravish,  put  pleasure  to  flight, 

And  pluck  away  friends,  e'en  as  leaves  from  the  tree ; 
And  say  not  Love's  torch,  which  like  Vesta's  should  burn, 
The  cold  breath  of  Time  soon  to  ashes  will  turn. 

You  call  Time  a  robber  ?    Nay,  he  is  not  so, — 
While  Beauty's  fair  temple  he  rudely  despoils. 
The  mind  to  enrich  with  its  plunder  he  toils ; 

And,  sowed  in  his  furrows,  doth  wisdom  not  grow  ? 


ANNA  CORA  MOWATT. 


429 


The  magnet  'mid  stars  points  the  north  still  to  view ; 
So  Time  'mong  our  friends  e'er  discloses  the  true. 

Though  cares  then  should  gather,  as  pleasures  flee  by, 
Though  Time  from  thy  features  the  charm  steal  away, 
He  '11  dim  too  mine  eye,  lest  it  see  them  decay ; 

And  sorrows  we 've  shared,  will  knit  closer  love's  tie  : 
Then  I  '11  laugh  at  old  Time,  and  at  all  he  can  do. 
For  he  '11  rob  me  in  vain,  if  he  leave  me  but  you  ! 


MY  LIFE. 

My  life  is  a  fairy's  gay  dream. 

And  thou  art  the  genii,  whose  wand 

Tints  all  things  around  with  the  beam. 
The  bloom  of  Titania's  bright  land. 


A  wish  to  my  lips  never  sprung, 
A  hope  in  mine  eyes  never  shone. 

But,  ere  it  was  breathed  by  my  tongue, 
To  grant  it  thy  footsteps  have  flown. 

Thy  joys,  they  have  ever  been  mine. 
Thy  sorrows,  too  often  thine  own ; 

The  sun  that  on  me  still  would  shine. 
O'er  thee  threw  its  shadows  alone. 


ANNA  CORA  MOWATT. 


Life's  garland  then  let  us  divide, 
Its  roses  I'd  fain  see  thee  wear, 

For  one — but  I  know  thou  wilt  chide — 
Ah !  leave  me  its  thorns,  love,  to  bear ! 


CHARLOTTE  CUSHMAN. 


Miss  Cushman's  father  was  a  merchant  of  Boston,  who  died,  after  hav 
ing  met  with  reverses,  leaving  a  widow  and  four  children  to  struggle  unas- 
sisted in  life.  The  eldest  child,  Charlotte,  early  gave  promise  of  a  superior 
voice;  and  was  a  pupil  of  Mr.  John  Paddon,  of  Boston.  She  made  her 
debut  in  that  city  as  a  vocalist,  at  the  early  age  of  fourteen,  and  even  then, 
her  future  distinction  was  anticipated.  Through  some  mismanagement  her 
voice  failed  her, — but  not  her  genius — for  she  has  since  become  one  of  the 
first  actresses  of  the  day. 

Four  years  ago  she  visited  England,  where  her  superior  histrionic  talents 
were  immediately  acknowledged  by  the  English  critics ;  and  from  persons 
of  high  literary  distinction  she  received  kind  attention  and  warm  friendship. 

The  composition  of  poetry  has  never  been  with  her  a  study  ;  her  poems 
have  been  songs  of  relief — written  when  her  mind  needed  rest  after  the 
laborious  duties  of  her  profession.  She  possesses  genius,  intellect,  great 
energy  of  character,  and  a  strong,  independent  spirit. 

THERE  IS   NO  GOD. 

"  There  is  no  God" — the  sceptic  scoffing  said ; 

"  There  is  no  power  that  sways  on  earth  or  sky ;" 
Remove  the  veil  that  folds  the  doubter's  head, 

That  God  may  burst  upon  his  opened  eye ! 
Is  there  no  God  ?    Yon  stars  above  arrayed, 

If  he  look  there,  the  blasphemy  deny : 
Whilst  his  own  features  in  the  mirror  read, 

Reflect  the  image  of  Divinity. 

55 


432 


CHARLOTTE  CUSHMAN. 


Is  there  no  God  ?  the  purling  streamlet's  flow, 

The  air  he  breathes,  the  ground  he  treads,  the  trees, 

Bright  flowers,  green  fields,  the  winds  that  round  him  blow. 
All  speak  of  God,  all  prove  that  His  decrees 

Have  placed  them  where  they  may  His  being  show ; 
Blind  to  thyself,  behold  Him,  Man,  in  these ! 


THERE  IS  A  GOD. 

There  is  a  God  !    The  wise  man's  heart  declares, 

There  is  an  author  to  the  wondrous  birth 
Of  light  and  life — which  Nature  gaily  wears. 

When  music-toned  her  smile  rests  on  the  earth. 
There  is  a  God  !    The  sky  His  presence  shares. 

His  hand  upheaves  the  billows  in  their  mirth. 
Destroys  the  mighty,  yet  the  humble  spares. 

And  with  contentment  crowns  the  thought  of  worth. 
There  is  a  God  I    To  doubt  it,  were  to  fly 

Mad  in  the  face  of  Reason  and  Design ;  — 
To  lift  the  vision  of  the  mole  on  high. 

And,  blinded  by  the  sunlight  there,  repine ; 
This  is  the  fool's  part !    To  the  wise  man's  eye, 

The  light  uplifts  him  to  the  Source  Divine ! 


CHARLOTTE  M.  S.  BARNES. 


(NOW  MRS.  E.  S.  CONNER.) 

THE  ADDRESS  OF  "PEN  AND  INK:" 

A  MOTTO. 

Eyes  we  have  not,  yet  we  see; 

Tongueless,  but  not  dumb,  are  we; 

Artists  are  not,  yet  did  draw 

All  that  matchless  Shakspeare  saw. 

Straying  not  beyond  your  chair, 

Yet  we  travel  voyages  rare ; 

Spite  of  distance,  wind  or  weather, 

We  bring  absent  friends  together: 

Pardon,  happiness,  or  woe. 

We  deny, — and  we  bestow  : 

Charity  we  oft  withhold, — 

Oft  give  love  more  rich  than  gold : 

We  can  satirize  the  vain. 

Censure  vice  in  wholesome  strain : 

Thoughts,  that  else  would  leave  no  trace. 

Find,  through  us,  a  dwelling-place : 

Joined,  we  labour  ceaselessly. 

But,  when  severed,  useless  we. 

Mortals !  friends !  we  toil  for  you. 

Patient,  humble,  silent,  true: 

Long  as  ye  can  speak  and  think, 

Love  your  servants,  ''Pen  and  Ink." 


CATHARINE  E.  BEECHER. 


This  lady  is  a  native  of  Litchfield,  Connecticut,  and  the  daughter  of  the 
Rev.  Lyman  Beecher,  D.  D.    She  resides,  we  believe,  in  Cincinnati, 

NEW.YEAR'S  EVE. 

Midnight  lowers — strange  wailing  voices 
Moan  around — dim  forms  flit  by — 

Low  complainings,  mournful  visions, 
Drink  my  spirit,  drown  my  eye. 

Rising  slow  from  murky  darkness, 
See  yon  glimmering  shade  appear ! 

Ah!  I  know  thy  mournful  tokens. 
Spirit  of  the  parting  year! 

Tall  her  form,  her  long  dark  tresses 

On  the  night-wind  float  along; 
Wild  her  bearing — sad  her  wailing — 

List,  and  hear  her  parting  song : 

"  Earth,  I  leave  thee !  world  of  wonders. 

Is  it  ever  thus  thy  years 
Enter,  dressed  in  smiles  and  gladness, 

Pass  away  in  sighs  and  tears  ? 


CATHARINE  E.  BEECHER. 


"  Heaven  hath  crowned  thee,  and  with  blessing 

Studded  rich  thy  diadem; 
Guilty  man  hath  cast  it  from  thee, 

Dimmed  the  gold  and  soiled  each  gem. 

"Man,  immortal,  heir  of  Heaven, 

Image  of  his  God  below. 
Spurns  his  blessings,  sells  his  birthright. 

Turns  each  promised  joy  to  woe. 

"Blood-eyed  War  mows  down  his  victims; 

Slavery  weeps  o'er  chains  that  bind; 
Passion  shakes  his  iron  scourges; 

Vice  enthrals  the  immortal  mind. 

"  Care  hath  made  her  dwelling  with  thee ; 

Pain  and  sickness  sad  complain ; 
Pining  sorrow  blasts  each  blossom ; 

Death  fills  up  the  mournful  train. 

"  See  the  new-born  year  appearing. 
On  the  breeze  her  warblings  swell ! 

Hark!  the  midnight  bell,  deep  tolling. 
Sounds  my  exit — Earth  farewell!" 

Swift  she  fled — then  bright  as  morning. 
Forth  a  light-winged  seraph  springs, 

From  her  blue  eye  speaking  gladness, 
Hope  looks  forth,  while  thus  she  sings — 

"  Hail,  fair  world !  how  bright  thy  shore ! 
How  sweet  thy  scenes,  how  rich  thy  store ! 


CATHARINE  E.  BEECHER. 


For  thee  boon  Nature  decks  her  skies, 
And  moons  return  and  planets  rise. 
And  morning  smiles  with  dewy  eye, 
And  evening  paints  the  western  sky. 
For  thee  young  spring,  with  spicy  gale. 
Spreads  life  and  freshness  on  the  vale, 
And  summer's  richer  tints  are  born, 
And  autumn  fills  her  golden  horn; 
For  thee  the  glowing  landscape  smiles. 
With  ocean's  waves  and  emerald  isles, 
And  mountains  lift  their  brows  of  snow. 
And  azure  lakelets  sleep  below. 
With  quiet  grove  and  shady  nook, 
And  dewy  lawn  and  murmuring  brook; 
While  breezes  wave  the  dreamy  willow. 
Or  glide  to  meet  the  rising  billow. 
Among  thy  shades  sweet  peace  is  seen. 
And  plenty  laughs  in  hamlets  green. 
And  commerce  spreads  her  snowy  sail. 
And  freedom's  song  floats  on  the  gale. — 
For  thee  fair  science  heaps  her  store. 
And  hoary  learning  spreads  his  lore, 
While  sweet  affection  comes  to  bless 
With  winning  smile  and  kind  caress, 
And  love,  whose  purest  joys  are  given. 
Sweet  emblem  of  the  bliss  of  Heaven. — 
In  all  thy  Maker's  hand  appears. 
Who  changeless  wheels  thy  circling  years, 
And  guides  thee  with  eternal  love. 
To  seek  for  brighter  joys  above !" 


MARTHA  DAY. 


Miss  Day  was  the  eldest  daughter  of  Jeremiah  Day,  LL.  D.,  President 
of  Yale  College,  and  was  born  at  New  Haven.  She  died  in  1833,  in  her 
twentieth  year.  A  volume  of  her  "  Literary  Remains,"  accompanied  by  a 
Memoir,  was  published  in  her  native  city  in  1834. 

THE  COMET'S  FLIGHT. 

It  happened  once,  that  a  straggling  ray 
From  the  solar  system  lost  its  way, 

And  it  came  to  a  Comet's  den ; 
And  it  roused  him  up  from  his  long,  long  sleep. 
And  he  sprung  from  his  cavern  in  chaos  deep, 

To  visit  the  Sun  again. 

So  long  he  had  lain  in  his  dungeon  cold. 
His  joints  felt  exceedingly  stiff  and  cold, 

And  he  scarce  could  move  a  limb ; 
But,  in  spite  of  his  sharp,  rheumatic  pain. 
He  shook  his  limbs,  and  he  combed  his  mane, 

And  put  himself  soon  in  trim. 

Then  forth  he  sprung  on  the  realm  of  Night ; 
All  chaos  stared  at  his  crazy  flight, 
And  a  terrible  tumult  made ; 


438 


MARTHA  DAY. 


And  torrents  of  cloud,  and  flood,  and  flame. 
Up  from  her  dark  abysses  came, 

But  nothing  the  monster  stayed. 

On,  on  he  went,  as  the  lightning  fast. 

Till  the  realm  of  destruction  and  darkness  past 

Glad  was  the  Comet  then ; 
For  behind  lay  the  kingdom  of  Night  and  Death, 
And  he  saw  the  light,  and  he  breathed  the  breath 

Of  the  starry  world  again. 

That  lovely  world,  with  its  bounds  of  blue, 
Lay  far  and  wide  in  the  Comet's  view. 

As  he  stayed  his  course  to  gaze ; 
And  he  hung  like  one  in  a  joyful  trance, 
Watching  the  stars  in  their  mystic  dance 

Through  many  a  glittering  maze. 

By  millions  and  millions,  the  orbs  of  light 
Solemnly  moved  in  their  courses  bright. 

And,  from  far,  to  his  ravished  ears, 
Seemed,  like  a  breeze,  to  swell  and  die 
A  clear  and  awful  harmony  : 

'T  was  the  music  of  the  spheres ! 

And  gentle  gales  came  floating  there, 
Gales  of  the  soft  ethereal  air ; 

And,  at  their  reviving  breath, 
Down,  down  he  plunged,  on  his  heedless  way. 
And  woe  to  all  in  his  path  that  lay. 

In  his  fiery  path  of  death ! 


MARTHA  DAY. 


By  many  a  rolling  star  he  flew, 

With  her  glittering  seas  and  her  lands  of  blue, 

But  in  loneliness  he  fared ; 
For,  with  pallid  beams  they  shrunk  away, 
And  hid  themselves  from  his  deadly  ray, 

As  he  wildly  on  them  glared. 

But  once  too  near  his  fearful  blaze. 
One  tiny  planet  came  forth  to  gaze. 

From  her  path  of  light  afar ; 
And  the  Comet  withered  the  waving  trees. 
And  blighted  the  lands,  and  dried  the  seas 

Of  the  venturous  little  star. 

Swifter  and  swifter,  the  Comet  flew. 
Brighter  and  brighter,  his  radiance  grew. 

When  the  glorious  Sun  was  near ; 
But  the  planets  wished  him  back  again. 
And  fast  asleep  in  his  midnight  den. 

For  their  orbs  were  thrilled  with  fear. 

Saturn  called  loudly  each  frightened  moon, 
And  they  gathered,  for  safety,  behind  him  soon, 

And  peeped  through  his  ring  of  gold ; 
Jove  drew  his  girdle  around  him  tight, 
And  called  on  Mars  to  prepare  for  fight ; 

But  the  courage  of  Mars  was  cold. 

Soon  he  came  near  to  the  beautiful  Earth ; 
Hushed  were  her  murmurs  of  joy  and  mirth. 
When  she  saw  that  direful  ray ; 

56 


MARTHA  DAY. 


And  the  pallid  Moon  behind  her  fled, 
And  covered  with  clouds  her  fainting  head, 
And  concealed  in  darkness  lay. 

Venus  in  splendour  he  could  not  dim ; 
Her  eye  of  glory  beamed  on  him, 

And  where  was  his  savage  heart  ? 
One  glance  of  love  he  backward  cast, 
And  trimmed  his  beams  as  he  onward  passed. 

And  in  sadness  did  depart. 

Mercury  fled  in  dismay  at  the  sight ; 
The  Comet  laughed  to  behold  his  fright, 

And  erected  his  mane  of  flame. 
But  now  his  fiery  course  was  done  — 
His  long  and  trackless  race  was  run — 

For  unto  the  Sun  he  came. 

But  should  I  tell  you  the  conference  dire 
That  was  held  between  these  orbs  of  fire, 

Your  every  hair  would  rise  ! 
So  now  I  descend  to  earth  again, 
Ere  the  height  has  turned  my  giddy  brain, 

Or  the  glory  dimmed  my  eyes. 


ELLEN  S.  SMITH. 


Mrs.  Smith  is  the  daughter  of  Benjamin  H.  Rand,  Esq.,  and  a  native 
of  Philadelphia.  In  1848  she  was  married  to  the  Rev.  J,  Howard  Smith, 
of  Grahamville,  South  Carolina. 

"Oh  ye  Showers  and  Dew,  bless  ye  the  Lord,  praise  Him  and  magnify 
Him  for  ever." — Morning  Service  in  the  Episcopal  Church. 

Shower,  in  gems  of  light  descending, 

Leaves  and  flowerets  gently  bending, 
With  thy  light  footsteps  making  melody ; 

Lift  thine  unuttered  voice, 

Bid  the  dull  heart  rejoice, 
And  praise  the  Lord  with  cheerful  psalmody. 

Shower,  mid  forests  hoary. 

Crowned  with  an  ancient  glory, 
Where  through  green  leaves  thy  lulling  voice  is  heard ; 

Whisper  the  pilgrim  weary 

Sweet  tidings,  glad  and  cheery. 
Of  Him  who  cares  for  flower  and  bee  and  bird. 

Shower,  o'er  ocean  falling, 
Where  deep  to  deep  is  calling, 


442 


ELLEN  S.  SMITH. 


In  tones  majestic,  learned  ere  earth  was  born ; 

Thine  offered  tribute  bringing, 

Whence  thou,  at  first,  wert  springing  ; 
Speak  there  the  love  of  God  to  mariners  forlorn. 

Shower,  in  darkness  fearful, 

And  thunders  falling,  tearful, 
As  Heaven  o'er  Earth's  rebellious  course  were  weeping, 

Tell  of  the  awful  power 

Of  Him  who  sent  thee,  vShower, 
And  wake  the  sinner  from  his  deathly  sleeping. 

Then,  when  in  anguish  kneeling, 

His  righteous  sentence  feeling. 
He  bows  submissive  to  the  will  of  Heaven, 

Spread  forth  before  his  sight 

Sweet  Mercy's  banner  bright. 
And  speak  to  him  of  sins  through  Christ  forgiven. 

Showers,  at  morn's  awaking, 
'  O'er  sultry  noontide  breaking, 
Or  softly  dropping  'neath  the  veil  of  night ; 

Praise  ye  the  God  of  glory. 

And  tell  His  wondrous  story. 
That  man  may  bless  the  Lord  of  love  and  might. 

Dew-drops,  at  morn  distilling. 

Each  flower's  bright  chalice  filling, 
With  grateful  draughts,  freshening  the  springs  of  life. 

In  jewelled  letters  trace  ye 

His  love,  who  here  doth  place  you. 
Myriad  messengers,  with  beauty  rife. 


ELLEN  S.  SMITH. 


443 


Silently  o'er  the  grasses, 

Thy  fairy  tissue  passes, 
Lighting  them  with  a  glow  of  emerald  hue ; 

Shedding  o'er  blade  and  flower 

A  new-born  grace  and  power — 
Praise  thou  the  Lord,  oh  pure,  refreshing  Dew ! 

Let  thy  soft  whispers  teaching. 

The  soul's  recesses  reaching, 
Speak  of  a  Spirit  silent  as  thou  art ; 

Whose  new-creating  power. 

More  rich  than  dew  to  flower. 
Can  breathe  pure  brightness  through  the  sin-stained  heart. 

'  Whose  gentle  influence,  stealing 

O'er  waves  of  human  feeling. 
Can  lull  their  turbulence  to  calmest  rest ; 

The  spirit's  sorrow  healing, 

Which,  unto  none  revealing. 
It  else  had  borne  in  bitterness  unblest. 

Oh  precious  Dew  and  Showers ! 

The  life-draught  of  our  bowers. 
Why  in  your  usefulness  so  beautiful  ? 

But  that  ye  're  given  to  prove 

A  patient  Father's  love. 
Yearning  o'er  children,  still  undutiful ! 


444 


ELLEN  S.  SMITH. 


THE  SYMPATHY  OF  HEAVEN. 

"  With  Angels  and  Archangels,  and  all  the  company  of  Heaven,  we  laud  and 
magnify  Thy  glorious  name." — Episcopal  Communion  Service. 

0  CAN  it  be  that  we 

So  sunk  in  misery, — 
The  degradation  deep  and  dark  of  sin, — 

May  lift  aloft  the  voice. 

And  gratefully  rejoice 
With  the  all-glorious  hosts  of  seraphim ! 

Can  there  be  chords  that  thrill 

The  angelic  hearts  which  fill 
The  pure  and  holy  halls  of  light  above, 

Yet  find  a  low,  faint  tone 

Responsive  in  our  own  ? 
0  wondrous  mystery  of  redeeming  love  ! 

Over  this  kindling  thought, 

AVith  strange,  deep  meaning  fraught. 
We  kneel  to  praise,  to  wonder  and  adore;  — 

Yet,  Lord,  one  touch  more  sweet 

Bringeth  us  to  Thy  feet, 
With  love  that  yearns  for  utterance  evermore. 

Imagination's  gaze 

Shrinks  from  the  radiant  blaze 
That  glitters  round  the  unfallen  hosts  of  God  ; 

But  0,  before  Thy  throne 

Are  some,  our  loved,  our  own. 
Who  once  with  us  earth's  varied  pathway  trod. 


ELLEN  S.  SMITH. 


445 


Missing  their  sunny  smile, 

We  linger  here  awhile, 
Meekly  the  task  to  finish  God  hath  given ; 

Then  joyously  we  trust 

To  leave  this  frame  of  dust. 
And  follow  our  beloved  ones  to  Heaven. 

What  joy  is  in  the  gleam 

Of  hope  that  still  the  stream 
Of  their  sweet  sympathy  remaineth  ours  ! 

That  stream  which  ever  shed 

O'er  aching  heart  and  head 
Calmness  and  blessedness  in  healing  showers. 

0  Saviour,  glorious  Lord ! 

For  ever  be  adored 
'Midst  all  Thy  goodness  this  sweet  act  of  love, 

That  binds  in  one  bright  chain 

Us  and  our  loved  again, 
While  praising  Thee  on  earth  as  they  praise  Thee  above ! 


MARION  H.  RAND. 


This  lady,  the  daughter  of  Benjamin  H.  Rand,  Esq.,  was  born  in  Phila- 
delphia. She  died  in  the  summer  of  1849,  at  Grahamville,  South  Carolina, 
while  on  a  visit  to  her  sister,  Mrs.  J.  Howard  Smith. 

HOME. 

"Absence  makes  the  heart  grow  fonder." 

Do  ye  miss  me,  dear  ones,  when  from  our  loved  home 
So  long  this  yearning  spirit  hath  been  parted  ? 

And  do  ye  look  with  longings  like  mine  own 
To  welcome  back  again  the  weary-hearted  ? 

Do  ye  miss  me  yet  ? 

In  the  bright  morning  hour,  when  I  was  ever 
The  first  to  greet  thee  at  the  social  board. 

Thou,  who  though  often  saddened,  yet  didst  never 
Withhold  thine  answering  smile  and  loving  word, 
My  gentle  Mother. 

When  to  our  daily  tasks  together  turning. 
Thou  who  wert  ever  with  me,  day  by  day. 

Thy  young  companions  and  their  pleasures  scorning. 
Lest  I  should  be  too  lonely  on  my  way. 
My  merry  Brother. 


MARION  H.  RAND. 


447 


When  at  the  midday  meal  again  unbroken 

Our  little  circle  met,  e'en  now  I  see 
My  Mother's  look  of  chiding,  yet  unspoken. 

When  I  forgot  the  reverence  due  to  thee. 

Our  first,  "  our  Eldest." 

In  the  cool  twilight  hour,  when  we  would  gather 
In  playful  converse,  and  thy  toils  were  o'er, 

Dost  thou  not  miss  me  ;  too,  my  graver  Brother, 
Now  that  thy  loving  arm  can  clasp  no  more 
Thine  absent  Sister  ? 

When  darker  night  closed  in,  and  early  seeking 
My  quiet  couch,  there  peacefully  to  rest, 

How  I  recall  that  glance  so  fondly  speaking. 

As  thou  wouldst  draw  me  to  thy  care-worn  breast, 
My  dear,  kind  Father. 

And  ^AoM,  bright  cherub  in  thy  path  of  flowers, 
Strown  by  the  hand  of  love  afresh  each  day, 

Thou  hast  not  known  the  pang  of  lonely  hours, 
Thou  hast  not  missed  me  on  thy  gladsome  way, 
Our  household  darling. 

But  through  the  long,  long  day,  in  every  hour. 
In  all  the  heart  can  feel,  the  eye  can  see. 

Hast  thou  not  felt  the  parting's  bitter  power  ? 
Hast  /AoM  not  missed  me,  e'en  as  I  miss  thee, 
My  own  sweet  Sister  ? 

57 


CLARA  MOORE. 


This  lady,  whose  maiden  name  was  Jessup,  is  the  wife  of  Bloorafield 
Moore,  Esq.,  of  Philadelphia,  where  she  resides. 

THE   WIDOW   TO  HER   GOLD  RING. 

This  golden  circlet  in  the  sunlight  gleaming, 

Recalls  the  scenes  of  childhood's  happy  hours ; 
The  wildwood  walks  by  waters  ever  streaming 

Through  shady  groves  and  sunny  fields  of  flowers. 
The  pine-crowned  crag,  and  the  rock-covered  mountain, 

Which  to  the  vale  a  slumbrous  shadow  lent, 
Where  like  a  maiden  danced  the  flashing  fountain, 

Making  its  own  sweet  music  as  it  went. 

All  these,  and  more  than  these  together  blending. 

Bring  fresh  unto  my  mind  the  sacred  past. 
When  hope  and  love  to  me  were  never-ending. 

And  grief  upon  my  brow  no  shadow  cast. 
My  bosom  then  had  never  known  such  heaving, 

As  now  with  sorrow  it  is  often  stirred ; 
Nor  had  my  spirit  learned  such  woful  grieving, 

For  my  young  heart  was  like  a  joyous  bird. 

No  smile  then  mocked  me  with  deceitful  wreathing. 
Nor  had  I  learned  distrust's  cold,  bitter  tone, 

But  lovely  airs  from  out  the  future  breathing. 

Fanned  my  young  brow  with  dreams  that  now  are  flown 


CLARA  MOORE. 


449 


0,  never  more  in  those  green  wood-paths  roaming, 
Shall  my  changed  spirit  know  its  early  glee, 

Never  again  by  the  pure  fountain's  foaming, 
Listen  so  gladly  to  its  melody. 

The  streamlets  from  those  flowery  meadows  straying, 

In  wider  channels  sweep  with  darker  flow ; 
And  the  old  hemlocks  in  the  wild-winds  swaying 

Across  my  heart  their  heavy  shadows  throw. 
Thoughts  of  the  world,  and  the  world's  friends  deceiving, 

Will  ever  overcloud  my  sunniest  day ; 
Till  with  calm  patience  in  one  faith  believing, 

My  life  shall  pass  its  chequered  hours  away. 

And  thou,  dear  ring,  to  me  shalt  be  the  token, 

Not  of  this  life,  but  that  which  is  to  come  ; 
For  there  the  round  of  hope  still  shines  unbroken, 

To  gild  the  soul  when  it  has  passed  the  tomb. 
Now  be  my  hair  with  darkest  cypress  braided. 

And  of  the  nightshade  make  my  bridal  wreath — 
Black  be  the  veil  with  which  my  brow  is  shaded. 

When  with  this  ring  I  meet  the  bridegroom.  Death. 


MARY  G.  WELLS 


Is  a  native  and  resident  of  Philadelphia.  She  is  the  author  of  many 
graceful  translations  from  the  Italian  poets,  which  have  chiefly  appeared  in 
the  Southern  Literary  Messenger. 

IMPLORA  PACE: 

SOLE   EPITAPH   UPON   THE   TOMB  OF   AN   ITALIAN  PRINCESS. 

We  mark  thy  fervent  prayer  with  saddened  heart, 
Thou  mourning  princess  of  the  olden  years ; 

Thy  rank,  thy  riches,  could  no  joy  impart, 

Peace  thou  didst  ask  with  floods  of  burning  tears  : 

What  were  the  empty  honours  of  a  throne 

To  one  whose  bosom  sighed  for  rest  alone ! 

Thy  history 's  shrouded  in  the  misty  past : 

What  was  thy  wrong,  thy  weight  of  secret  woe  ! 

What  dark  and  threatening  clouds  thy  skies  o'ercast ! 
What  rankling  care  was  thine,  we  may  not  know  — 

This  we  but  see — so  bitter  was  thy  grief. 

That  only  in  the  grave  it  sought  relief. 

Haply  thou  wert  as  morning  young  and  fair. 
Thy  budding  charms  by  many  lovers  sung. 

When  thou  wert  victim  to  the  deep  despair 

By  which  that  soft  and  gentle  breast  was  wrung. 

Perchance  thy  years  were  long  and  full  of  strife. 

And  thou  hadst  felt  the  nothingness  of  life. 


MARY  G.  WELLS. 


Whate'er  thy  charms,  thy  years,  thy  woes,  thy  lot, 
A  painful  lesson  on  thy  tomb  we  read — 

That  bliss,  pure,  perfect,  unalloyed,  is  not 
To  any  station  here  on  earth  decreed. 

Heart-broken  one !  mayst  thou,  to  Heaven  returned. 

Taste  the  sweet  peace  for  which  thy  spirit  yearned ! 


ELIZABETH  LLOYD. 


Miss  Lloyd  is  a  native  and  resident  of  Philadelphia.  The  following 
poem,  first  published  in  this  city,  was  copied  in  the  European  Journals, 
without  the  author's  name,  where  it  excited  admiration,  and  gave  rise  to 
much  speculation  as  to  the  authorship. 

MILTON  ON  HIS  BLINDNESS. 

I  AM  old  and  blind  ! 
Men  point  at  me  as  smitten  by  God's  frown ; 
Afflicted  and  deserted  of  my  kind, 

Yet  am  I  not  cast  down. 


I  am  weak,  yet  strong  ; 
I  murmur  not  that  I  no  longer  see ; — 
Poor,  old,  and  helpless,  I  the  more  belong. 

Father  Supreme  !  to  Thee. 


All  merciful  One ! 
When  men  are  furthest,  then  art  thou  most  near ; 
When  friends  pass  by,  my  weaknesses  to  shun, 

Thy  chariot  I  hear. 


ELIZABETH  LLOYD 


Thy  glorious  face 
Is  leaning  toward  me,  and  its  holy  light 
Shines  in  upon  my  lonely  dwelling-place — 

And  there  is  no  more  night. 

On  my  bended  knee, 
I  recognise  Thy  purpose,  clearly  shown ; 
My  vision  Thou  hast  dimmed  that  I  may  see 

Thyself— Thyself  alone. 

I  have  nought  to  fear ; 
This  darkness  is  the  shadow  of  Thy  wing ; 
Beneath  it  I  am  almost  sacred — here 

Can  come  no  evil  thing. 

Oh  !  I  seem  to  stand 
Trembling,  where  foot  of  mortal  ne'er  hath  been, 
Wrapped  in  that  radiance  from  the  sinless  land 

Which  eye  hath  never  seen. 

Visions  come  and  go, 
Shapes  of  resplendent  beauty  round  me  throng ; 
From  angel  lips  I  seem  to  hear  the  flow 

Of  soft  and  holy  song. 

It  is  nothing  now. 
When  heaven  is  opening  on  my  sightless  eyes 
When  airs  from  "  Paradise"  refresh  my  brow. 

The  earth  in  darkness  lies. 


454 


ELIZABETH  LLOYD. 


In  a  purer  clime, 
My  being  fills  with  rapture — waves  of  thought 
Roll  in  upon  my  spirit — strains  sublime 

Break,  over  me  unsought. 

Give  me  now  my  lyre ! 
I  feel  the  stirrings  of  a  gift  divine, 
Within  my  bosom  glows  unearthly  fire 

Lit  by  no  skill  of  mine. 


BLANCHE  BENNAIRDE. 

Mrs.  Bryant,  formerly  Mrs.  Green,  but  widely  known  by  the  above 
nom  de  plume,  is  a  resident  of  Philadelphia.  Her  poems  have  chiefly 
appeared  in  the  papers  and  magazines.  Various  political  articles  from  her 
pen,  during  the  presidential  campaign  of  1848,  have  been  widely  copied, 
and  were  noticeable  for  their  vigorous  thought  and  perspicuity. 

LOVE. 

I  NEVER  knew  true  love  decay, 
Though  it  may  droop  and  fade; 

But  still  it  lives,  and  lives  for  aye, 
Through  sunshine  and  through  shade, 

Though  leaves  and  buds  are  torn  away, 
Or,  with  the  earth  't  is  laid ! 

Its  root  runs  deep,  extending  wide — 

E'en  though  the  soil  be  hard; 
'Twill  wind  round  stone,  as  if  to  hide, 

Or  from  a  storm  to  guard, 
And  seems,  as  it  were,  satisfied, 

Though  from  all  earth  debarred. 

I've  known  it  in  a  climate  cold, 
And  spite  of  frosts  to  grow; 

58 


BLANCHE  BENNAIRDE. 

And  it  will  live — so  I  am  told — 
Where  nought  is  seen  but  snow ; 

And  looks  far  better  when  grown  old — 
At  least,  some  tell  us  so. 

Then  tell  me  not  of  Love  that  dies — 

I  cannot  think  it  true ; 
Though  broken  down,  it  soon  will  rise, 

And  fairer  seem  to  view. 
Rich  perfume  sending  to  the  skies 

From  flowers  more  bright  and  new. 


THE  TEARS  AND  SIGHS  OF  LOVE. 

When  tears  and  sighs  are  born  of  love. 

The  heart  is  joyful,  though  there 's  weeping — 
The  anxious  eye  sees  clouds  above, 

And  thus  a  careful  watch  is  keeping ; 
Yet  still  there 's  sunshine  in  the  soul ; 

Although  the  tear  doth  start  unbidden ; 
For  sweetest  tears  are  those  which  roll 

Down  Beauty's  cheeks,  when  love  is  hidden. 

In  vain  the  effort  to  be  gay 

Far  from  an  object  of  devotion ; 
For  fitful  sighs  will  oft  betray 

The  aching  heart's  concealed  emotion : 


BLANCHE  BENNAIRDE. 


And  in  the  silence  of  the  night. 

When  sleep  hath  sealed  the  eyes  of  many, 
There 's  joy  and  exquisite  delight 

In  tears  and  sighs  unseen  by  any. 

Though  Passion  brings  consuming  Woe, 

Yet  Love  will  listen  unto  Reason ;  — 
And  Hope  will  bid  her  flowers  to  grow, 

Although 't  is  in  a  winter  season : 
'T  is  sweet  to  cull  Hope's  flowers  bright. 

With  richest  colours  ever  glowing;  — 
They  never  fail  to  give  delight, 

Though  silent  tears  may  oft  be  flowing. 


MARY  J.  REED 

Has  written  many  graceful  poems  for  our  Annuals  and  Magazines,  under 
the  signature  of  "  Marie  Roseau.''''    She  is  a  resident  of  Philadelphia. 

LOVE  ALL  THINGS. 

Love  all  things !  love  the  little  bird,  whose  song  on  summer 
days 

Rings  clearly  through  the  fragrant  air,  in  soft,  melodious 
praise ; 

Oh !  love  him,  and  his  notes  will  lure  thy  heart  from  busy 
care, 

And  pleasant  thoughts  may  fill  thy  soul,  as  thou  his  joy  wilt 
share : 

Then  learn  this  lesson  from  his  song — Thy  Father  cares  for  all, 
And  His  all-seeing  eye  will  mark  the  smallest  sparrow  fall. 

Love  all  things !  love  the  fresh,  pure  flowers,  their  fragrance, 
form,  and  dye, 

And  let  the  humblest  of  the  train  be  pleasing  in  thine  eye : 
When  weary  with  a  present  grief,  oppressed  with  future 
fear. 

Thou  seek'st  some  rural,  quiet  glade,  where  they  are  bloom- 
ing near ; 


MARY  J.  REED. 


459 


Then,  as  thine  eye  is  sweetly  charmed,  this  truth  thy  mind 
will  see — 

That  "  He,  who  careth  for  the  flowers,  will  much  more  care 
for  thee." 

Love  all  things !  love  the  gentle  rill  that  softly  glides  along, 
Thus  spreading  verdure  round  thy  path,  and  charming  with 
its  song : 

And  when  the  efforts  of  thy  love,  weak,  feeble,  fruitless 
seem, 

And  all-alluring  is  the  dross  that  gilds  Ambition's  dream : 
Learn  thou,  though  mighty  waterfalls  the  soul  with  wonder  fill, 
Yet  yield  they  less  of  good  to  man  than  such  a  quiet  rill. 

Love  all  things !  love  the  brilliant  stars  that  gem  the  darkened 
skies. 

Whose  radiant  lustre  makes  the  night  well  pleasing  to  our 
eyes; 

Then,  as  thy  glance  is  upward  turned,  raise  thou  thy  soul 
above. 

Still  higher  to  His  Holy  Throne,  who  fills  all  heaven  with 
love ; 

And  if  a  shade  be  o'er  thy  path,  this  thought  to  thee  is  given — 
The  gloom  of  earth  may  be  dispelled  by  brighter  hopes  of 
Heaven. 

Love  all  things!  love  the  insect  tribe — the  meanest  living 
thing 

That  humbly  creeps  along  the  ground,  or  flits  upon  the  wing ; 


.  460  MARY  J.  REED. 

And  each  may  in  its  quiet  way  some  gentle  lesson  give, 
Which,  if  thou  only  rightly  learn,  may,  long  as  thou  shalt 
live. 

New  blessings  round  thine  earthly  way  in  rich  abundance 
spread. 

Or  guard  thee  from  some  glittering  sword  suspended  o'er  thy 
head. 

Love  all !  love  thou  thy  fellow  man — the  rich,  who  in  his 
gold 

Deems  he  may  find  a  perfect  bliss — a  treasure  still  untold; 
The  poor,  who  in  his  poverty  bemoans  a  weary  fate ; 
He  who  has  gained  him  many  friends ;  the  wanderer  deso- 
late ; 

Let  each  to  thee  a  brother  be  —  act  thou  a  brother's  part, 
And  Heaven  will  pour  the  blessing  back  upon  thy  feeling 
heart. 

These  shalt  thou  love  with  truest  love,  yet  dearer  let  Him  be 
Who  in  His  heavenly  mercy  gives  a  loving  heart  to  thee ; 
Then  all  that  breathe — the  rill — the  flower — the  shining 
orbs  above 

Will  raise  thy  spirit  to  the  Source,  the  real  Source  of  love ; 
And  when  to  all  on  earth  most  dear  shall  close  thy  drooping 
eye, 

Thy  best  affections  will  expand  more  purely  in  the  sky. 


MARY  J.  REED. 


LITTLE  CHILDREN. 

Speak  gently  to  the  little  child. 

So  guileless  and  so  free, 
Who  with  a  trustful  loving  heart 

Puts  confidence  in  thee. 
Speak  not  the  cold  and  careless  words 

Which  time  has  taught  thee  well, 
Nor  breathe  one  thought  whose  saddened  tone 

Despair  might  seem  to  tell. 

[f  on  his  brow  there  rests  a  cloud, 

However  light  it  be, 
Speak  loving  words,  and  let  him  feel 

He  has  a  friend  in  thee ; 
And  do  not  send  him  from  thy  side. 

Till  on  his  face  shall  rest 
The  joyous  look  and  sunny  smile 

That  mark  a  happy  breast. 

Oh  teach  him  this  should  be  his  aim ;  — 

To  cheer  the  aching  heart; 
To  strive,  where  thickest  darkness  reigns, 

Some  radiance  to  impart ; 
To  spread  a  peaceful  quiet  calm 

Where  dwells  the  noise  of  strife; 
Thus  doing  good,  and  blessing  all, 

To  spend  the  whole  of  life  : 


463 


MARY  J.  REED. 


To  love  with  pure  affection  deep 

All  creatures,  great  and  small, 
And  still  a  stronger  love  to  bear 

For  Him  who  made  them  all. 
Remember,  't  is  no  common  task 

That  thus  to  thee  is  given, 
To  rear  a  spirit  fit  to  be 

The  habitant  of  Heaven. 


THE  END. 


E.  B.  MEARS,  STEBEOTYPER. 


C.  SHERMAN,  PBINTER. 


